. 


POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS 

Majores  majora  sonent 


POEMS 


ON   SEVERAL   OCCASIONS 


BY 


AUSTIN    DOBSON 


IN   TWO  VOLUMES 

VOL.  I. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD,  AND   COMPANY 
1889 


LONDON,  March  2,  1889. 

Messrs.  Dodd^  Mead,  and  Company  are  my 

American  publishers. 

AUSTIN  DOBSON. 


Snibmttg  \9rtts: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


To  you  I  sing,  whom  towns  immure, 
And  bonds  of  toil  holdfast  and  sure  ; — 
To  you  across  whose  aching  sight 
Come  woodlands  bathed  in  April  light, 
And  dreams  of  pastime  premature. 

And  you,  O  Sad,  who  still  endure 
Some  wound  that  only  Time  can  cure, — 
To  you,  in  watches  of  the  night, 
To  you  I  sing/ 

But  most  to  you  with  eyelids  pure, 
Scarce  witting  yet  of  love  or  lure  ; — 

To  you,  with  bird-like  glances  bright, 
Half -paused  to  speak,  half-poised  in  flight ;- 
O  English  Girl,  divine,  demure, 
To  YOU  I  sing! 


2081813 


CONTENTS. 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS:  PAGE 

A  Dead  Letter 3 

A  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School 10 

A  Gentlewoman  of  the  Old  School      ....  15 

The  Ballad  of  Beau  Brocade 20 

Une  Marquise 32 

The  Story  of  Rosina 38 

PROVERBS  IN  PORCELAIN  : 

The  Ballad  a  la  Mode 51 

•»•  The  Metamorphosis 55 

-  The  Song  out  of  Season 59 

The  Cap  that  Fits 63 

The  Secrets  of  the  Heart 67 

"  Good-Night,  Babette  !  " 72 

VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME  : 

s  The  Drama  of  the  Doctor's  Window  ....  79 

An  Autumn  Idyll 88 

A  Garden  Idyll 95 


Contents. 

VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME  —  continued.  PAGB 

Tu  Quoque 100 

*  A  Dialogue  from  Plato 104 

The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose 107 

Love  in  Winter 109 

Pot-Pourri m 

Dorothy 114 

Avice 117 

The  Love-Letter 121 

The  Misogynist 124 

A  Virtuoso 128 

Laissez  Faire 132 

ToQ.  H.  F 134 

To  "  Lydia  Languish  " 137 

A  Gage  d'Amour 140 

Cupid's  Alley 144 

The  Idyll  of  the  Carp 148 

The  Sundial 154 

An  Unfinished  Song 158 

The  Child-Musician 161 

The  Cradle 162 

Before  Sedan 163 

The  Forgotten  Grave 165 

My  Landlady 167 

Before  the  Curtain 170 

A  Nightingale  in  Kensington  Gardens     .     .     .  172 

MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES: 

A  Song  of  the  Four  Seasons 177 

The  Paradox  of  Time 179 


Contents. 

MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES  —  continued.  PAGE 

To  a  Greek  Girl 181 

The  Death  of  Procris 183 

The  Prayer  of  the  Swine  to  Circe 186 

A  Case  of  Cameos 191 

The  Sick  Man  and  the  Birds 194 

A  Flower  Song  of  Angiola 197 

A  Song  of  Angiola  in  Heaven 200 

The  Dying  of  Tanneguy  du  Bois 204 

The  Mosque  of  the  Caliph 207 

In  the  Belfry 212 

Ars  Victrix 213 

ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  : 

Rose  Leaves  (Triolets) 219 

"  Persicos  Odi "    "           223 

The  Wanderer  (Rondet) 224 

"Vitas  Hi nnuleo"     "        225 

"On  London  Stones"  {Rondeau} 226 

"  Farewell,  Renown  "            "          227 

"  More  Poets  Yet "                "          228 

"  With  Pipe  and  Flute  "       "          229 

To  Ethel                                 "          230 ' 

"  O  Fons  Bandusias  "            "          231 

"  Vixi  Puellis "                        "          232 

"When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose"  (Villanelle)  .     .  233 

On  a  Nankin  Plate                               "            .     .  235 

For  a  Copy  of  Theocritus                     "           .     .  237 

"  Tu  ne  Quaesieris "                            "           .     .  239 

The  Prodigals  {Ballade:  Irregular)  .     .     .     .  241 


Contents. 


ESSAYS  ix  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS  —  continued. 

On  a  Fan  {Ballade)      .........  243 

The  Ballad  of  the  Armada  (Ballade)  ....  245 

The  Ballad  of  Imitation              "          ....  247 

The  Bal    d  of  Prose  and  Rhyme  (Ballade)  .     .  249 

"O  Navis"                                             "        .     .  251 

The  Dance  of  Death  (Chant  Royal)  ....  253 

NOTES    .  261 


OLD-WORLD  IDYLLS. 


A  DEAD  LETTER. 

"  A  cxur  bless f — r  ombre  et  le  silence" 

— H.  DE  BALZAC. 

I. 

I  DREW  it  from  its  china  tomb ;-  •  • 

It  came  out  feebly  scented 
With  some  thin  ghost  of  past  perfume 

That  time  and  years  had  lent  it. 

An  old,  old  letter,— folded  still  I 

To  read  with  due  composure 
I  sought  the  sun-lit  window-sill 

Above  the  gray  enclosure, 

That,  glimmering  in  the  sultry  haze, 

Faint-flowered,  dimly  shaded, 
Slumbered,  like  Goldsmith's  Madam  Blaize, 

Bedizened  and  brocaded. 
3 


A  Dead  Letter. 

A  queer  old  place !     You  'd  surely  say 
Some  tea-board  garden-maker 

Had  planned  it  in  Dutch  William's  day 
To  please  some  florist  Quaker, 

So  trim  it  was.     The  yew-trees  still, 

With  pious  care  perverted, 
Grew  in  the  same  grim  shapes ;  and  still 

The  lipless  dolphin  spurted ; 

Still  in  his  wonted  state  abode 

The  broken-nosed  Apollo ; 
And  still  the  cypress-arbour  showed 

The  same  umbrageous  hollow. 

Only, — as  fresh  young  Beauty  gleams 
From  coffee-coloured  laces, — 

So  peeped  from  its  old-fashioned  dreams 
The  fresher  modern  traces ; 

For  idle  mallet,  hoop,  and  ball 

Upon  the  lawn  were  lying  ; 
A  magazine,  a  tumbled  shawl, 

Round  which  the  swifts  were  flying; 
4 


A  Dead  Letter. 

And,  tossed  beside  the  Guelder  rose, 

A  heap  of  rainbow  knitting, 
Where,  blinking  in  her  pleased  repose, 

A  Persian  cat  was  sitting. 

"  A  place  to  love  in, — live, — for  aye, 

If  we  too,  like  Tithonus, 
Could  find  some  God  to  stretch  the  gray 
Scant  life  the  Fates  have  thrown  us ; 

"  But  now  by  steam  we  run  our  race 
With  buttoned  heart  and  pocket ; 
Our  Love  's  a  gilded,  surplus  grace, — 
Just  like  an  empty  locket. 

"'The  time  is  out  of  joint.'     Who  will, 

May  strive  to  make  it  better ; 
For  me,  this  warm  old  window-sill, 
And  this  old  dusty  letter." 

n. 

u  Dear  John  (the  letter  ran),  it  can't,  can't  be, 

For  Father  's  gone  to  Chorley  Fair  with  Sam 
And  Mother  's  storing  Apples, — Prue  and  Me 
Up  to  our  Elbows  making  Damson  Jam  : 
5 


A  Dead  Letter. 

But  we  sliall  meet  before  a  Week  is  gone, — 
"T  is  a  long  Lane  that  has  no  Turning,'  John  ! 

"  Only  till  Sunday  next,  and  then  you  '11  wait 

Behind  the  White-Thorn,  by  the  broken  Stile— 
*Ve  can  go  round  and  catch  them  at  the  Gate, 

All  to  ourselves,  for  nearly  one  long  Mile; 
Dear  Prue  won't  look,  and  Father  he  '11  go  on, 
And  Sam's  two  Eyes  are  all  for  Cissy,  John  ! 

"  John,  she  's  so  smart, — with  every  Ribbon  new, 
Flame-coloured  Sack,  and  Crimson  Padesoy; 
As  proud  as  proud ;  and  has  the  Vapours  too, 
Just  like  My  Lady ; — calls  poor  Sam  a  boy, 
And  vows  no  Sweet-Heart  's  worth  the  Thinking-Oil 
Till  he  's  past  Thirty  ...  I  know  better,  John! 

"  My  Dear,  I  don't  think  that  I  thought  of  much 
Before  we  knew  each  other,  I  and  you ; 

And  now,  why,  John,  your  least,  least  Finger-touch, 
Gives  me  enough  to  think  a  Summer  through. 

See,  for  I  send  you  Something !    There,  't  is  gone ! 

Look  in  this  comer, — mind  you  find  it,  John!" 

HI. 

This  was  the  matter  of  the  note, — 

A  long-forgot  deposit, 
6 


A  Dead  Letter. 

Dropped  in  an  Indian  dragon's  throat, 
Deep  in  a  fragrant  closet, 

Piled  with  a  dapper  Dresden  world, — 
Beaux,  beauties,  prayers,  and  poses, — 

Bronzes  with  squat  legs  undercurled, 
And  great  jars  filled  with  roses. 

Ah,  heart  that  wrote !     Ah,  lips  that  kissed ! 

You  had  no  thought  or  presage 
Into  what  keeping  you  dismissed 

Your  simple  old-world  message ! 

A  reverent  one.     Though  we  to-day 

Distrust  beliefs  and  powers, 
The  artless,  ageless  things  you  say 

Are  fresh  as  May's  own  flowers, 

Starring  some  pure  primeval  spring, 
Ere  Gold  had  grown  despotic, — 

Ere  Life  was  yet  a  selfish  thing, 
Or  Love  a  mere  exotic. 

I  need  not  search  too  much  to  find 
Whose  lot  it  was  to  send  it, 


A  Dead  Letter. 

That  feel  upon  me  yet  the  kind, 
Soft  hand  of  her  who  penned  it ; 

And  see,  through  two  score  years  of  smoke, 

In  by-gone,  quaint  apparel, 
Shine  from  yon  time-black  Norway  oak 

The  face  of  Patience  Caryl, — 

The  pale,  smooth  forehead,  silver-tressed ; 

The  gray  gown,  primly  flowered ; 
The  spotless,  stately  coif  whose  crest 

Like  Hector's  horse-plume  towered ; 

And  still  the  sweet  half-solemn  look 
Where  some  past  thought  was  clinging, 

As  when  one  shuts  a  serious  book 
To  hear  the  thrushes  singing. 

I  kneel  to  you !     Of  those  you  were, 
Whose  kind  old  hearts  grow  mellow, — 

Whose  fair  old  faces  grow  more  fair 
As  Point  and  Flanders  yellow ; 

Whom  some  old  store  of  garnered  grief, 
Their  placid  temples  shading, 
8 


A  Dead  Letter. 

Crowns  like  a  wreath  of  autumn  leaf 
With  tender  tints  of  fading. 

Peace  to  your  soul !     You  died  unwed — 

Despite  this  loving  letter. 
And  what  of  John  ?    The  less  that 's  said 

Of  John,  I  think,  the  better. 
9 


A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL 


HE  lived  in  that  past  Georgian 
When  men  were  less  inclined  to  say 
That  "Time  is  Gold,"  and  overlay 

With  toil  their  pleasure  ; 
He  held  some  land,  and  dwelt  thereon,  — 
Where,  I  forget,  —  the  house  is  gone  ; 
His  Christian  name,  I  think,  was  John,  — 

His  surname,  Leisure. 

Reynolds  has  painted  him,  —  a  face 
Filled  with  a  fine,  old-fashioned  grace, 
Fresh-coloured,  frank,  with  ne'er  a  trace 

Of  trouble  shaded  ; 
The  eyes  are  blue,  the  hair  is  drest 
In  plainest  way,  —  one  hand  is  prest 
Deep  in  a  flapped  canary  vest, 

With  buds  brocaded. 
10 


A  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School. 

He  wears  a  brown  old  Brunswick  coat, 
With  silver  buttons, — round  his  throat, 
A  soft  cravat ; — in  all  you  note 

An  elder  fashion, — 
A  strangeness,  which,  to  us  who  shine 
In  shapely  hats, — whose  coats  combine 
All  harmonies  of  hue  and  line. 

Inspires  compassion. 

He  lived  so  long  ago,  you  see ; 
Men  were  un travelled  then,  but  we, 
Like  Ariel,  post  o'er  land  and  sea 

With  careless  parting ; 
He  found  it  quite  enough  for  him 
To  smoke  his  pipe  in  "  garden  trim," 
And  watch,  about  the  fish  tank's  brim, 

The  swallows  darting. 

He  liked  the  well-wheel's  creaking  tongue, — 
He  liked  the  thrush  that  stopped  and  sung,— 
He  liked  the  drone  of  flies  among 

His  netted  peaches ; 
He  liked  to  watch  the  sunlight  fall 
Athwart  his  ivied  orchard  wall ; 
Or  pause  to  catch  the  cuckoo's  call 

Beyond  the  beeches. 


A  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School. 

"  '  I 

His  were  the  times  of  Paint  and  Patch, 


Aud  yet  no  Ranelagh  could  match 
The  sober  doves  that  round  his  thatch 

Spread  tails  and  sidled ; 
He  liked  their  ruffling,  puffed  content, — 
For  him  their  drowsy  wheelings  meant 
More  than  a  Mall  of  Beaux  that  bent, 

Or  Belles  that  bridled. 

Not  that,  in  truth,  when  life  began 
He  shunned  the  flutter  of  the  fan ; 
He  too  had  may  be  "  pinked  his  man " 

In  Beauty's  quarrel ; 
But  now  his  "  fervent  youth  "  had  flown 
Where  lost  things  go ;  and  he  was  grown 
As  staid  and  slow-paced  as  his  own 

Old  hunter,  Sorrel. 

Yet  still  he  loved  the  chase,  and  held 
That  no  composer's  score  excelled 
The  merry  horn,  when  Sweetlip  swelled 

Its  jovial  riot ; 

But  most  his  measured  words  of  praise 
Caressed  the  angler's  easy  ways, — 
His  idly  meditative  days, — 

His  rustic  diet. 
12 


A  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School. 

Not  that  his  "meditating"  rose 
Beyond  a  sunny  summer  doze ; 
He  never  troubled  his  repose 

With  fruitless  prying ; 
But  held,  as  law  for  high  and  low, 
What  God  'withholds  no  man  can  know, 
And  smiled  away  inquiry  so, 

Without  replying. 

We  read — alas,  how  much  we  read ! — 
The  jumbled  strifes  of  creed  and  creed 
With  endless  controversies  feed 

Our  groaning  tables; 
His  books — and  they  sufficed  him — were 
Cotton's  "Montaigne,"  "The  Grave"  of  Blair, 
A  "Walton" — much  the  worse  for  wear, 

And  "^Esop's  Fables." 

One  more,— "The  Bible."     Not  that  he 
Had  searched  its  page  as  deep  as  we ; 
No  sophistries  could  make  him  see 

Its  slender  credit ; 
It  may  be  that  he  could  not  count 
The  sires  and  sons  to  Jesse's  fount, — 
He  liked  the  "  Sermon  on  the  Mount/'  - 

And  more,  he  read  it. 


A  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School. 

Once  he  had  loved,  but  failed  to  wed, 
A  red-cheeked  lass  who  long  was  dead; 
His  ways  were  far  too  slow,  he  said, 

To  quite  forget  her ; 

And  still  when  time  had  turned  him  gray, 
The  earliest  hawthorn  buds  in  May 
Would  find  his  lingering  feet  astray, 

Where  first  he  met  her. 

"In  Casio  Quies"  heads  the  stone 
On  Leisure's  grave, — now  little  known, 
A  tangle  of  wild-rose  has  grown 

So  thick  acros^jt ; 
The  "Benefactions"  still  c^Bue 
He  left  the  clerk  an  elbo\aHair, 
And  "  1 2  Pence  Yearly  w  Prepare 

A  Christmas  Posset." 

Lie  softly,  Leisure  !     Doubtless  you, 
With  too  serene  a  conscience  drew 
Your  easy  breath,  and  slumbered  through 

The  gravest  issue; 
But  we,  to  whom  our  age  allows 
Scarce  space  to  wipe  our  weary  brows, 
Look  down  upon  your  narrow  house, 

Old  friend,  and  miss  you ! 
14 


A  GENTLEWOMAN  OF  THE  OLD  SCHOOL. 

SHE  lived  in  Georgian  era  too. 
Most  women  then,  if  bards  be  true, 
Succumbed  to  Routs  and  Cards,  or  grew 

Devout  and  acid. 

But  hers  was  neither  fate.     She  came 
Of  good  west-country  folk,  whose  fame 
Has  faded  now.     For  us  her  name 

Is  "  Madam  Placid." 

Patience  or  Prudence, — what  you  will, 
Some  prefix  faintly  fragrant  still 
As  those  old  musky  scents  that  fill 

Our  grandams'  pillows ; 
And  for  her  youthful  portrait  take 
Some  long-waist  child  of  Hudson's  make. 
Stiffly  at  ease  beside  a  lake 

With  swans  and  willows. 
15 


A  Gentlewoman  of  the  Old  School. 

I  keep  her  later  semblance  placed 
Beside  my  desk, — 't  is  lawned  and  laced, 
In  shadowy  sanguine  stipple  traced 

By  Bartolozzi; 

A  placid  face,  in  which  surprise 
Is  seldom  seen,  but  yet  there  lies 
Some  vestige  of  the  laughing  eyes 

Of  arch  PiozzL 

For  her  e'en  Time  grew  debonair. 
He,  finding  cheeks  unclaimed  of  care, 
With  late-delayed  faint  roses  there, 

And  lingering  dimples, 
Had  spared  to  touch  the  fair  old  face, 
And  only  kissed  with  Vauxhall  grace 
The  soft  white  hand  that  stroked  her  lace, 

Or  smoothed  her  wimples. 

So  left  her  beautiful.     Her  age 
Was  comely  as  her  youth  was  sage, 
And  yet  she  once  had  been  the  rage ; — 

It  hath  been  hinted, 
Indeed,  affirmed  by  one  or  two, 
Some  spark  at  Bath  (as  sparks  will  do) 
Inscribed  a  song  to  "  Lovely  Prue," 

Which  Urban  printed. 
16 


A  Gentlewoman  of  the  Old  School. 

I  know  she  thought ;  I  know  she  felt ; 
Perchance  could  sum,  I  doubt  she  spelt, 
She  knew  as  little  of  the  Celt 

As  of  the  Saxon ; 

I  know  she  played  and  sang,  for  yet 
We  keep  the  tumble-down  spinet 
To  which  she  quavered  ballads  set 

By  Arne  or  Jackson. 

Her  tastes  were  not  refined  as  ours, 
She  liked  plain  food  and  homely  flowers, 
Refused  to  paint,  kept  early  hours, 

Went  clad  demurely; 
Her  art  was  sampler-work  design, 
Fireworks  for  her  were  "  vastly  fine," 
Her  luxury  was  elder-wine, — 

She  loved  that  "  purely." 

She  was  renowned,  traditions  say, 

For  June  conserves,  for  curds  and  whey, 

For  finest  tea  (she  called  it  "  tay "), 

And  ratafia ; 

She  knew,  for  sprains,  what  bands  to  choose, 
Could  tell  the  sovereign  wash  to  use 
For  freckles,  and  was  learned  in  brews 

As  erst  Medea. 


A  Gentlewoman  of  the  Old  School. 

Yet  studied  little.     She  would  read, 
On  Sundays,  "Pearson  on  the  Creed," 
Though,  as  I  think,  she  could  not  heed 

His  text  profoundly; 
Seeing  she  chose  for  her  retreat 
The  warm  west-looking  window-seat, 
Where,  if  you  chanced  to  raise  your  feet, 

You  slumbered  soundly. 

This,  'twixt  ourselves.     The  dear  old  dame, 
In  truth,  was  not  so  much  to  blame ; 
The  excellent  divine  I  name 

Is  scarcely  stirring; 
Her  plain-song  piety  preferred 
Pure  life  to  precept.     If  she  erred, 
She  knew  her  faults.     Her  softest  word 

Was  for  the  erring. 

[f  she  had  loved,  or  if  she  kept 
Some  ancient  memory  green,  or  wept 
Over  the  shoulder-knot  that  slept 

Within  her  cuff-box, 
t  know  not.     Only  this  I  know,  (\ 
'  1  At  sixty-five  she  'd  still  her_bgaiU, 
A  lean  French  exile,  lame  and  slow, 
With  monstrous  snuff-box. 
18 


A  Gentlewoman  of  the  Old  School. 

Younger  than  she,  well-born  and  bred. 
She  'd  found  him  in  St.  Giles',  half  dead 
Of  teaching  French  for  nightly  bed 

And  daily  dinners; 

Starving,  in  fact,  'twixt  want  and  pride ; 
And  so,  henceforth,  you  always  spied 
His  rusty  "pigeon- wings"  beside 

Her  Mechlin  pinners. 

He  worshipped  her,  you  may  suppose. 
She  gained  him  pupils,  gave  him  clothes, 
Delighted  in  his  dry  bonjmots^ 

And  cackling  laughter ; 
And  when,  at  last,  the  long  duet 
Of  conversation  and  picquet 
Ceased  with  her  death,  of  sheer  regret 

He  died  soon  after. 

Dear  Madam  Placid !  Others  knew 
Your  worth  as  well  as  he,  and  threw 
Their  flowers  upon  your  coffin  too, 

I  take  for  granted. 
Their  loves  are  lost ;  but  still  we  see 
Your  kind  and  gracious  memory 
Bloom  yearly  with  the  almond  tree 

The  Frenchman  planted. 


THE  BALLAD  OF "BEAU  BROCADE 

"  Hark  I  I  hear  the  sound  of  coaches  I  " 

— BEGGAR'S  OPERA. 

I. 

SEVENTEEN  hundred  and  thirty-nine : — 
That  was  the  date  of  this  tale  of  mine. 

First  great  GEORGE  was  buried  and  gone ; 
GEORGE  the  Second  was  plodding  on. 

LONDON,  then,  as  the  "Guides"  aver, 
Shared  it5  glories  with  Westminster; 

And  people  of  rank,  to  correct  their  "tone," 
Went  out  of  town  to  Marybone. 

Those  were  the  days  of  the  War  with  Spain, 
PORTO-BELLO  would  soon  be  ta'en ; 
20 


The  Ballad  of  "Beau  Brocade  " 

WHITEFIELD  preached  to  the  colliers  grim, 
Bishops  in  lawn  sleeves  preached  at  him ; 

WALPOLE  talked  of  "a  man  and  his  price"; 
Nobody's  virtue  was  over-nice : — 

Those,  in  fine,  were  the  brave  days  when 
Coaches  were  stopped  by  ...  Highway  men  t 

And  of  all  the  knights  of  the  gentle  trade 
Nobody  bolder  than  "  BEAU  BROCADE." 

This  they  knew  on  the  whole  way  down ; 
Best, — may  be, — at  the  "  Oak  and  Crown" 

(For  timorous  folk  on  their  pilgrimage 

Would  "club"  for  a  "Guard"  to  ride  the  stage ; 

And  the  Guard  that  rode  on  more  than  one 
Was  the  Host  of  this  hostel's  sister's  son.) 

Open  we  here  on  a  March  day  fine, 
Under  the  oak  with  the  hanging  sign. 

There  was  Barber  DICK  with  his  basin  by ; 

Cobbler  JOE  with  the  patch  on  his  eye ; 
21 


The  Ballad  of  "Beau  Brocade." 

Portly  product  of  Beef  and  Beer, 
JOHN  the  host,  he  was  standing  near. 

Straining  and  creaking,  with  wheels  awry, 
Lumbering  came  the  "Plymouth  Fly"; — 

Lumbering  up  from  Bagshot  Heath, 
Guard  in  the  basket  armed  to  the  teeth ; 

Passengers  heavily  armed  inside ; 

Not  the  less  surely  the  coach  had  been  tried  ! 

Tried ! — but  a  couple  of  miles  away, 

By  a  well-dressed  man ! — in  the  open  day ! 

Tried  successfully,  never  a  doubt, 
Pockets  of  passengers  all  turned  out ! 

Cloak-bags  rifled,  and  cushions  ripped, — 
Even  an  Ensign's  wallet  stripped ! 

Even  a  Methodist  hosier's  wife 

Offered  the  choice  of  her  Money  or  Life ! 

Highwayman's  manners  no  less  polite, 
Hoped  that  their  coppers  (returned)  were  right  ;- 
12 


T/te  Ballad  of  "  B,  *u  Brocade" 

Sorry  to  find  the  company  poor, 

Hoped  next  time  they  'd  travel  with  more  ; — 

Plucked  them  all  at  his  ease,  in  short : — 
Such  was  the  "Plymouth  Flfs"  report. 

Sympathy!  horror!  and  wonderment ! 
"  Catch  the  Villain ! "     (But  Nobody  went.) 

Hosier's  wife  led  into  the  Bar; — 

(That 's  where  the  best  strong  waters  are !) 

Followed  the  tale  of  the  hundred-and-one 
Things  that  Somebody  ought  to  have  done. 

Ensign  (of  BRAGG'S)  made  a  terrible  clangour : 
But  for  the  Ladies  had  drawn  his  hanger ! 

Robber,  of  course,  was  "BEAU  BROCADE"; 
Out-spoke  DOLLY  the  Chambermaid. 

Devonshire  DOLLY,  plump  and  red, 
Spoke  from  the  gallery  overhead ; — 

Spoke  it  out  boldly,  staring  hard : — 
"  Why  did  n't  you  shoot  then,  GEORGE  the  Guard  ? ' 
23 


The  Ballad  of  "£eau  Brocade." 

Spoke  it  out  bolder,  seeing  him  mute : — 
"  GEORGE  the  Guard,  why  did  n't  you  shoot  ?  " 

Portly  JOHN  grew  pale  and  red, 
(JOHN  was  afraid  of  her,  people  said ;) 

Gasped  that  "  DOLLY  was  surely  cracked," 
(JOHN  was  afraid  of  her — that 's  a  fact !) 

GEORGE  the  Guard  grew  red  and  pale, 
Slowly  finished  his  quart  of  ale : — 

"  Shoot  ?    Why— Rabbit  him !— did  n't  he  shoot  ?  * 
Muttered — "The  Baggage  was  far  too  'cute!" 

"  Shoot  ?     Why  he  'd  flashed  the  pan  in  his  eye  1 " 
Muttered — "  She  'd  pay  for  it  by  and  by ! " 
Further  than  this  made  no  reply. 

Nor  could  a  further  reply  be  made, 

For  GEORGE  was  in  league  with  "  BEAU  BROCADE  "I 

And  JOHN  the  Host,  in  his  wakefullest  state, 
Was  not — on  the  whole — immaculate. 

But  nobody's  virtue  was  over-nice 

When  WALPOLE  talked  of  "a  man  and  his  price"; 
24 


The  Ballad  of  "Beau  Brocade." 

And  wherever  Purity  found  abode, 
'T  was  certainly  not  on  a  posting  road. 

n. 

"Forty"  followed  to  "Thirty-nine." 
Glorious  days  of  the  Hanover  line ! 

Princes  were  born,  and  drums  were  banged 
Now  and  then  batches  of  Highwaymen 

"  Glorious  news !  " — from  the  Spanish  Mai* , 
PORTO-BELLO  at  last  was  ta'en. 

"  Glorious  news ! " — for  the  liquor  trade ; 
Nobody  dreamed  of  "  BEAU  BROCADE." 

People  were  thinking  of  Spanish  Crowns ; 
Money  was  coming  from  seaport  towns ! 

Nobody  dreamed  of  "  BEAU  BROCADE," 
(Only  DOLLY  the  Chambermaid !) 

Blessings  on  VERNON  !     Fill  up  the  cans ; 
Money  was  coming  in  "Flys"  and  "  Vans" 

Possibly,  JOHN  the  Host  had  heard ; 
Also,  certainly,  GEORGE  the  Guard. 

25 


The  Ballad  of  "Beau  Brocade." 

And  DOLLY  had  possibly  tidings,  too, 
That  made  her  rise  from  her  bed  anew, 

Plump  as  ever,  but  stern  of  eye, 

With  a  fixed  intention  to  warn  the  "Fly.n 

Lingering  only  at  JOHN  his  door, 
Just  to  make  sure  of  a  jerky  snore ; 

Saddling  the  gray  mare,  Dumpling  Star; 
Fetching  the  pistol  out  of  the  bar ; 

(The  old  horse-pistol  that,  they  say, 
Came  from  the  battle  of  Malplaquet;) 

Loading  with  powder  that  maids  would  use, 
Even  in  "  Forty,"  to  clear  the  flues ; 

And  a  couple  of  silver  buttons,  the  Squire 
Gave  her,  away  in  Devonshire. 

These  she  wadded — for  want  of  better — 
With   the   B — SH — p  of    L — ND — N'S   "Pastoral 
Letter"; 

Looked  to  the  flint,  and  hung  the  whole, 
Ready  to  use,  at  her  pocket-hole. 
26 


The  Ballad  of  "Beau  Brocade." 

Thus  equipped  and  accoutred,  DOLLY 
Clattered  away  to  "Exciseman's  Folly" ; — 

Such  was  the  name  of  a  ruined  abode, 
Just  on  the  edge  of  the  London  road. 

Thence  she  thought  she  might  safely  try 
As  soon  as  she  saw  it  to  warn  the  "Fly" 

But,  as  chance  fell  out,  her  rein  she  drew, 
As  the  BEAU  came  cantering  into  the  view. 

By  the  light  of  the  moon  she  could  see  him  drest 
In  his  famous  gold-sprigged  tambour  vest ; 

And  under  his  silver-gray  surtout, 
The  laced,  historical  coat  of  blue, 

That  he  wore  when  he  went  to  London-Spaw, 
And  robbed  Sir  MUNGO  MUCKLETHRAW. 

Out-spoke  DOLLY  the  Chambermaid, 
(Trembling  a  little,  but  not  afraid,) 
"Stand  and  Deliver,  O  'BEAU  BROCADE'!" 

But  the  BEAU  drew  nearer,  and  would  not  speak, 

For  he  saw  by  the  moonlight  a  rosy  cheek  ; 
27 


TJie  Ballad  of  "Beau  Brocuie" 

And  a  spavined  mare  that  was  worth  a  "cole"; 
And  a  girl  with  her  hand  at  her  pocket-hole. 

So  never  a  word  he  spoke  as  yet, 

For  he  thought 't  was  a  freak  of  MEG  or  BET  ; — 

A  freak  of  the  "Rose"  or  the  "Rummer"  set. 

Out-spoke  DOLLY  the  Chambermaid, 
(Tremulous  now,  and  sore  afraid,) 
"Stand  and  Deliver,  O  'BEAU  BROCADE'!"— 

Firing  then,  out  of  sheer  alarm, 
Hit  the  BEAU  in  the  bridle-arm. 

Button  the  first  went  none  knows  where, 
But  it  carried  away  his  solitaire  ; 

Button  the  second  a  circuit  made, 
Glanced  in  under  the  shoulder-blade ; — 
Down  from  the  saddle  fell  "  BEAU  BROCADE  " ! 

Down  from  the  saddle  and  never  stirred ! — 
DOLLY  grew  white  as  a  Windsc*-  curd. 

Slipped  not  less  from  the  mare,  and  bound 

Strips  of  her  kirtle  about  his  wound. 
jfi 


The  Ballad  of  "Beau  Brocade" 

Then,  lest  his  Worship  should  rise  and  flee, 
Fettered  his  ankles — tenderly. 

Jumped  on  his  chestnut,  BET  the  fleet 
(Called  after  BET  of  Portugal  Street); 

Came  like  the  wind  to  the  old  Inn-door ; — 
Roused  fat  JOHN  from  a  three-fold  snore ; — 

Vowed  she  'd  'peach  if  he  misbehaved  .  .  . 
Briefly,  the  "Plymouth  Fly"  was  saved! 

Staines  and  Windsor  were  all  on  fire : — 
DOLLY  was  wed  to  a  Yorkshire  squire ; 
Went  to  Town  at  the  K — G'S  desire ! 

But  whether  His  M — j — STY  saw  her  or  not, 
HOGARTH  jotted  her  down  on  the  spot ; 

And  something,  of  DOLLY  one  still  may  trace 
In  the  fresh  contours  of  his  " Milkmaid's"  face. 

GEORGE  the  Guard  fled  over  the  sea: 
JOHN  had  a  fit — of  perplexity ; 

Turned  King's  evidence,  sad  to  state ; — 

But  JOHN  was  never  immaculate 
29 


The  Ballad  of  "Beau  Brocade" 

As  for  the  BEAU,  he  was  duly  tried, 

When  his  wound  was  healed,  at  Whitsuntide; 

Served — for  a  day — as  the  last  of  "sights," 

To  the  world  of  St.  James's- Street  and  "  White's  ", 

Went  on  his  way  to  TYBURN  TREE, 
With  a  pomp  befitting  his  high  degree. 

Every  privilege  rank  confers : — 
Bouquet  of  pinks  at  St.  SepukhrJs; 

Flagon  of  ale  at  Holborn  Bar; 

Friends  (in  mourning)  to  follow  his  Car— 

("t"  is  omitted  where  HEROES  are!) 

Every  one  knows  the  speech  he  made ; 
Swore  that  he  "rather  admired  the  Jade!" — 

Waved  to  the  crowd  with  his  gold-laced  hat ; 
Talked  to  the  Chaplain  after  that ; 

Turned  to  the  Topsman  undismayed  .  .  . 
This  was  the  finish  of  "BEAU  BROCADE"! 


And  this  is  the  Ballad  thai  seemed  to  hide 
In  the  leaves  of  a  dusty  "  LONDONER'S  GUIDE"  ; 
30 


The  Ballad  of  "Beau  Brocade." 

"Humbly  Inscribed"  (with  curls  and  tails) 
By  the  Author  to  FREDERICK,  Prince  of  WALES  :— 

"  Published  by  FRANCIS  and  OLIVER  PINE  ; 
Ludgate-Hill,  at  the  Blackmoor  Sign. 
Seventcen-Hundred-and-Thirty-Nint" 


UNE  MARQUISE. 

A  RHYMED  MONOLOGUE  IN  THE  LOUVRE. 

•*  Belle  Afaryuisf,  vos  beaux  yeux  me  font  mourir  d*amour." 

— Moi  IKRE. 

I. 

As  you  sit  there  at  your  ease, 

O  Marquise ! 
And  the  men  flock  round  your  knees 

Thick  as  bees, 

Mute  at  every  word  you  utter, 
Servants  to  your  least  frill  flutter, 

11  Belle  Marquise!"— 
As  you  sit  there  growing  prouder, 

And  your  ringed  hands  glance  and  go, 
And  your  fan's  frou-frou  sounds  louder, 

And  your  "beaux yeux"  flash  and  glow; — 
Ah,  you  used  them  on  the  Painter, 
As  you  know, 
32 


Une  Marquise. 

For  the  Sieur  Larose  spoke  fainter, 

Bowing  low, 

Thanked  Madame  and  Heaven  for  Mercy 
That  each  sitter  was  not  Circe, 
Or  at  least  he  told  you  so ; — 
Growing  proud,  I  say,  and  prouder 
To  the  crowd  that  come  and  go, 
Dainty  Deity  of  Powder, 

Fickle  Queen  of  Fop  and  Beau, 
As  you  sit  where  lustres  strike  you, 
Sure  to  please, 
Do  we  love  you  most  or  like  you, 

"  Belle  Marquise!" 

ii. 

You  are  fair ;  O  yes,  we  know  it 

Well,  Marquise; 

For  he  swore  it,  your  last  poet, 
On  his  knees; 

And  he  called  all  heaven  to  witness 

Of  his  ballad  and  its  fitness, 

"Belle  Marquise!"— 

You  were  everything  in  ere 

(With  exception  of  severe), — 

You  were  cruelle  and  rebelle, 

With  the  rest  of  rhymes  as  well ; 
33 


Une  Marquise. 

You  were  " Reine"  and  "Mere  d*  Amour"; 

You  were  "  Venus  a  Cy there"; 
"  Sappho  mise  en  Pompadour" 

And  " Minerve  en  Parabere"; 
You  had  every  grace  of  heaven 

In  your  most  angelic  face, 
With  the  nameless  finer  leaven 

Lent  of  blood  and  courtly  race ; 
And  he  added,  too,  in  duty, 
Ninon's  wit  and  Boufflers'  beauty; 
And  La  Valliere's  yeux  veloutes 

Followed  these; 
And  you  liked  it,  when  he  said  it 

(On  his  knees), 
And  you  kept  it,  and  you  read  it, 

"  Belle  Marquise /" 


in. 
Yet  with  us  your  toilet  graces 

Fail  to  please, 
And  the  last  of  your  last  faces, 

And  your  mise; 
For  we  hold  you  just  as  real, 

"Belle  Marquise  I 
34 


Une  Marquise. 

As  your  Bergers  and  Bergeres, 
lies  d' Amour  and  Batelieres; 
As  your  pans,  and  your  Versailles, 
Gardens,  grottoes,  and  rocailles; 
As  your  Naiads  and  your  trees ; — 
Just  as  near  the  old  ideal 

Calm  and  ease, 
As  the  Venus  there,  by  Coustou, 

That  a  fan  would  make  quite  flighty, 
Is  to  her  the  gods  were  used  to, — 
Is  to  grand  Greek  Aphrodite, 

Sprung  from  seas. 
You  are  just  a  porcelain  trifle, 

"  Belle  Marquise!" 
Just  a  thing  of  puffs  and  patches, 
Made  for  madrigals  and  catches, 
Not  for  heart-wounds,  but  for  scratches, 

O  Marquise ! 
Just  a  pinky  porcelain  trifle, 

11  Belle  Marquise!" 
Wrought  in  rarest  rose-Dubarry, 
Quick  at  verbal  point  and  parry, 
Clever,  doubtless; — but  to  marry, 
No,  Marquise  1 
35 


Une  Marquise. 

IV. 

For  your  Cupid,  you  have  clipped  him. 
Rouged  and  patched  him,  nipped  and  snq  ped 

him, 
And  with  chateau-bras  equipped  him, 

"  Belle  Marquise 7" 

Just  to  arm  you  through  your  wife-time, 
And  the  languors  of  your  life-time, 

"Belle  Marquise!" 
Say,  to  trim  your  toilet  tapers, 
Or, — to  twist  your  hair  in  papers, 
Or, — to  win  you  from  the  vapours; — 

As  for  these, 

You  are  worth  the  love  they  give  you, 
Till  a  fairer  face  outlive  you, 

Or  a  younger  grace  shall  please ; 
Till  the  coming  of  the  crows'  feet, 
And  the  backward  turn  of  beaux'  feet, 

"  Belle  Marquise  /  "— 
Till  your  frothed-out  life's  commotion 
Settles  down  to  Ennui's  ocean, 
Or  a  dainty  sham  devotion, 

"Belle  Marquise  !n 
36 


Une  Marquise. 

v. 

No :  we  neither  like  nor  love  you, 

11  Belle  Marquise!" 
Lesser  lights  we  place  above  you, — 

Milder  merits  better  please. 
We  have  passed  from  PhMosopht-dfyc 

Into  plainer  modern  days, — 
Grown  contented  in  our  oafdom, 

Giving  grace  not  all  the  praise ; 
And,  en  partant,  Arsinoe, — 

Without  malice  whatsoever,— •• 
We  shall  counsel  to  our  Chloe 

To  be  rather  good  than  clever; 
For  we  find  it  hard  to  smother 

Just  one  little  thought,  Marquise! 
Wittier  perhaps  than  any  other, — 
You  were  neither  Wife  nor  Mother, 
"  Belle  Marquise  I* 
37 


THE  STORY  OF  ROSINA. 

AN  INCIDENT  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  FRAN£OIS  BOUCHER. 
"  On  ne  badine pas  avec  I'am&ur." 

THE  scene,  a  wood.    A  shepherd  tip-toe  creeping, 
Carries  a  basket,  whence  a  billet  peeps, 

To  lay  beside  a  silk-clad  Oread  sleeping 
Under  an  urn ;  yet  not  so  sound  she  sleeps 

But  that  she  plainly  sees  his  graceful  act ; 
"  He  thinks  she  thinks  he  thinks  she  sleeps,"  in  fact. 

One  hardly  needs  the  "  Feint  par  Franfois  Boucher. 

All  the  sham  life  comes  back  again, — one  sees 
Ak&vcs,  Ruelles,  the  Lever,  and  the  Coucher, 

Patches  and  Ruffles,  Roues  and  Marquises  ; 
The  little  great,  the  infinite  small  thing 
That  ruled  the  hour  when  Louis  Quinze  was  king. 
33 


The  Story  of  Rosina. 

For  these  were  yet  the  days  of  halcyon  weather, — 
A  "Martin's  summer"  when  the  nation  swam, 

Aimless  and  easy  as  a  wayward  feather, 
Down  the  full  tide  of  jest  and  epigram ; — 

A  careless  time,  when  France's  bluest  blood 

Beat  to  the  tune  of  "After  us  the  flood." 

Plain  Rolaud  still  was  placidly  "  inspecting," 
Not  now  Camille  had  stirred  the  Cafe  Foy ; 

Marat  was  young,  and  Guillotin  dissecting, 
Corday  unborn,  and  Lamballe  in  Savoie ; 

No  faubourg  yet  had  heard  the  Tocsin  ring: — 

This  was  the  summer — when  Grasshoppers  sing. 

And  far  afield  were  sun-baked  savage  creatures, 
Female  and  male,  that  tilled  the  earth,  and  wrung 

Want  from  the  soil ; — lean  things  with  livid  features, 
Shape  of  bent  man,  and  voice  that  never  sung : 

These  were  the  Ants,  for  yet  to  Jacques  Bonhomme 

Tumbrils  were  not,  nor  any  sound  of  drum. 

But  Boucher  was  a  Grasshopper,  and  painted, — 
Rose-water  Raphael, — en  couleur  de  rose, 

The  crowned  Caprice,  whose  sceptre,  nowise  sainted, 
Swayed  the  light  realm  of  ballets  and  bon-mots; — 
39 


Tlte  Story  of  Rosina. 

Ruled  the  dim  boudoir's  demi-jour,  or  drove 
Pink  -  ribboned  flocks  through  some  pink-flowered 
grove. 

A  laughing  Dame,  who  sailed  a  laughing  cargo 
Of  flippant  loves  along  the  Fleuve  du  Tendre ; 

Whose  greatest  grace  wasj'ufes  a  la  Camargo, 
Whose  gentlest  merit  gentiment  se  rendre  ; — 

Queen  of  the  rouge-cheeked  Hours,  whose  footsteps 
fell 

To  Rameau's  notes,  in  dances  by  Gardel ; — 

Her  Boucher  served,  till  Nature's  self  betraying, 
As  Wordsworth  sings,  the  heart  that  loved  her  not, 

Made  of  his  work  a  land  of  languid  Maying, 
Filled  with  false  gods  and  muses  misbegot ; — 

A  Versailles  Eden  of  cosmetic  youth, 

Wherein  most  things  went  naked,  save  the  Truth. 

Once,  only  once, — perhaps  the  last  night's  revels 
Palled  in  the  after-taste, — our  Boucher  sighed 

For  that  first  beauty,  falsely  named  the  Devil's, 
Young-lipped,  unlessoned,  joyous,  and  dear-eyed; 

Flung  down  his  palette  like  a  weary  man, 

And  sauntered  slowly  through  the  Rue  Sainte-Anne. 
40 


The  Story  of  Rosina. 

Wherefore,  we  know  not ;  but,  at  times,  far  nearer 
Things  common  come,  and  lineaments  half  seen 

Grow  in  a  moment  magically  clearer ; — 

Perhaps,  as  he  walked,  the  grass  he  called  "too 
green" 

Rose  and  rebuked  him,  or  the  earth  "ill-lighted" 

Silently  smote  him  with  the  charms  he  slighted. 

But,  as  he  walked,  he  tired  of  god  and  goddess, 
Nymphs  that  deny,  and  shepherds  that  appeal ; 

Stale  seemed  the  trick  of  kerchief  and  of  bodice, 
Folds  that  confess,  and  flutters  that  reveal ; 

Then  as  he  grew  more  sad  and  disenchanted, 

Forthwith  he  spied  the  very  thing  he  wanted. 

So,  in  the  Louvre,  the  passer-by  might  spy  some 
Arch-looking  head,  with  half-evasive  air, 

Start  from  behind  the  fruitage  of  Van  Huysum, 
Grape-bunch  and  melon,  nectarine  and  pear : — 

Here  't  was  no  Venus  of  Batavian  city, 

But  a  French  girl,  young, piquante,  bright,  and  pretty 

Graceful  she  was,  as  sonu  slim  marsh-flower  shaken 
Among  the  sallows,  in  the  breezy  Spring ; 

Blithe  as  the  first  blithe  song  of  birds  that  waken, 
Fresh  as  a  fresh  young  pear-tree  blossoming ; 


The  Storj  of  Rosina. 

Black  was  her  hair  as  any  blackbird's  feather ; 
Just  for  her  mouth,  two  rose-buds  grew  together. 

Sloes  were  her  eyes;  but  her  soft  cheeks  were  peaches, 
Hued  like  an  Autumn  pippin,  where  the  red 

Seems  to  have  burned  right  through  the  skin,  and 

reaches 
E'en  to  the  core ;  and  if  you  spoke,  it  spread 

Up  till  the  blush  had  vanquished  all  the  brown, 

And  like  two  birds,  the  sudden  lids  dropped  down. 

As  Boucher  smiled,  the  bright  black  eyes  ceased 

dancing, 

As  Boucher  spoke,  the  dainty  red  eclipse 
Filled  all  the  face  from  cheek  to  brow,  enhancing 

Half  a  shy  smile  that  dawned  around  the  lips. 
Then  a  shrill  mother  rose  upon  the  view; 
"  Cerises,  M'sieu?     Rosinc,  depechez-vous  !  " 

Deep  in  the  fruit  her  hands  Rosina  buries, 
Soon  in  the  scale  the  ruby  bunches  lay. 

The  painter,  watching  the  suspended  cherries, 
Never  had  seen  such  little  fingers  play; — 

As  for  the  arm,  no  Hebe's  could  be  rounder ; 

Low  in  his  heart  a  whisper  said  "  I  've  found  her." 
42 


Tlie  Story  of  Rosina. 

"  Woo  first  the  mother,  if  you  'd  win  the  daughter!" 
Boucher  was  charmed,  and  turned  to  Madame 

Mere, 
Almost  with  tears  of  suppliance  besought  her 

Leave  to  immortalize  a  face  so  fair; 
Praised  and  cajoled  so  craftily  that  straightway 
Void  Rosina, — standing  at  his  gateway. 

Shy  at  the  first,  in  time  Rosina's  laughter 
Rang  through  the  studio  as  the  girlish  face 

Peeped  from  some  painter's  travesty,  or  after 
Showed  like  an  Omphale  in  lion's  case; 

Gay  as  a  thrush,  that  from  the  morning  dew 

Pipes  to  the  light  its  clear  "  jReveillez-vous." 

Just  a  mere  child  with  sudden  ebullitions, 
Flashes  of  fun,  and  little  bursts  of  song, 

Petulant  pains,  and  fleeting  pale  contritions, 
Mute  little  moods  of  miser}'  and  wrong ; 

Only  a  child,  of  Nature's  rarest  making, 

Wistful  and  sweet, — and  with  a  heart  for  breaking ! 

Day  after  day  the  little  loving  creature 

Came  and  returned ;  and  still  the  Painter  felt, 

Day  after  day,  the  old  theatric  Nature 

Fade  from  his  sight,  and  like  a  shadow  melt, — 
43 


Tlie  Story  of  Rosina. 

Panlers  and  Powder,  Pastoral  and  Scene, 
Killed  by  the  simple  beauty  of  Rosine. 

As  for  the  girl,  she  turned  to  her  new  being, — 
Came,  as  a  bird  that  hears  its  fellow  call  j 

Blessed,  as  the  blind  that  blesses  God  for  seeing ; 
Grew,  as  a  flower  on  which  the  sun-rays  fall; 

Loved  if  you  will ; — she  never  named  it  so  : 

Love  comes  unseen, — we  only  see  it  go. 

There  is  a  figure  among  Boucher's  sketches, 
Slim, — a  child-face,  the  eyes  as  black  as  beads, 

Head  set  askance,  and  hand  that  shyly  stretches 
Flowers  to  the  passer,  with  a  look  that  pleads. 

This  was  no  other  than  Rosina  surely ; — 

None  else  that  Boucher  knew  could  look  so  purely. 

But  forth  her  Story,  for  I  will  not  tarry, 
Whether  he  loved  the  little  "  nut-brown  maid  " ; 

If,  of  a  truth,  he  counted  this  to  carry 

Straight  to  the  end,  or  just  the  whim  obeyed, 

Nothing  we  know,  but  only  that  before 

More  had  been  done,  a  finger  tapped  the  door. 

Opened  Rosina  to  the  unknown  comer. 

'T  was  a  young  girl — "ttrtf  pauvre  fille"  she  said, 
44 


The  Story  of  Rosina. 

"  They  had  been  growing  poorer  all  the  summer ; 

Father  was  lame,  and  mother  lately  dead ; 
Bread  was  so  dear,  and, — oh !  but  want  was  bitter, 
Would  Monsieur  pay  to  have  her  for  a  sitter  ? 

Men  called  her  pretty."     Boucher  looked  a  minute 

Yes,  she  was  pretty ;  and  her  face  beside 
Shamed  her  poor  clothing  by  a  something  in  it, — 

Grace,  and  a  presence  hard  to  be  denied ; 
This  was  no  common  offer  it  was  certain ; — 
"  Allez,  Rosina !  sit  behind  the  curtain." 

Meantime  the  Painter,  with  a  mixed  emotion, 
Drew  and  re-drew  his  ill-disguised  Marquise, 

Passed  in  due  time  from  praises  to  devotion ; 
Last  when  his  sitter  left  him  on  his  knees, 

Rose  in  a  maze  of  passion  and  surprise, — 

Rose,  and  beheld  Rosina's  saddened  eyes. 

Thrice-happy  France,  whose  facile  sons  inherit 

Still  in  the  old  traditionary  way, 
Power  to  enjoy — with  yet  a  rarer  merit, 

Power  to  forget !    Our  Boucher  rose,  I  say, 
With  hand  still  prest  to  heart,  with  pulses  throbbing, 
And  blankly  stared  at  poor  Rosina  sobbing. 
45 


The  Story  of  Rosina. 

"  This  was  no  model,  M'sieu,  but  a  lady." 
Boucher  was  silent,  for  he  knew  it  true. 

"  Est-ce  que  vous  I'aimez?  "     Never  answer  made  he 
Ah,  for  the  old  love  fighting  with  the  new ! 

"  Est-ce  que  vous  raimez  ?  "  sobbed  Rosina's  sorrow. 

"Bon!"  murmured  Boucher;  "she  will  come  to-mor- 
row." 

How  like  a  Hunter  thou,  O  Time,  dost  harry 

Us,  thine  oppressed,  and  pleasured  with  the  chase 

Sparest  to  strike  thy  sorely-running  quarry, 
Following  not  less  with  unrelenting  face. 

Time,  if  Love  hunt,  and  Sorrow  hunt,  with  thee, 

Woe  to  the  Fawn  1     There  is  no  way  to  flee. 

Woe  to  Rosina !     By  To-morrow  stricken, 
Swift  from  her  life  the  sun  of  gold  declined. 

Nothing  remained  but  those  gray  shades  that  thicken 
Cloud  and  the  cold, — the  loneliness — the  wind. 

Only  a  little  by  the  door  she  lingers, — 

Waits,  with  wrung  lip  and  interwoven  fingers. 

No,  not  a  sign.     Already  with  the  Painter 

Grace  and  the  nymphs  began  recovered  reign  ; 

Truth  was  no  more,  and  Nature,  waxing  fainter, 
Paled  to  the  old  sick  Artifice  again. 
46 


The  Story  of  Rosina. 

Seeing  Rosina  going  out  to  die, 

How  should  he  know  what  Fame  had  passed  him  by  ? 

Going  to  die !     For  who  shall  waste  in  sadness, 
Shorn  of  the  sun,  the  very  warmth  and  light, 

Miss  the  green  welcome  of  the  sweet  earth's  gladness, 
Lose  the  round  life  that  only  Love  makes  bright : 

There  is  no  succour  if  these  things  are  taken. 

None  but  Death  loves  the  lips  by  Love  forsaken. 

So,  in  a  little,  when  those  Two  had  parted, — 

Tired  of  himself,  and  weary  as  before, 
Boucher  remembering,  sick  and  sorry-hearted, 

Stayed  for  a  moment  by  Rosina's  door. 
"  Ah,  the  poor  child ! "  the  neighbour's  cry  of  her, 
"  Morte,  M'sieu,  morte  !     On  dit,—des  peines  du  coeur!  " 

Just  for  a  second,  say,  the  tidings  shocked  him, 
Say,  in  his  eye  a  sudden  tear-drop  shone, — 

Just  for  a  second  a  dull  feeling  mocked  him 

With  a  vague  sense  of  something  priceless  gone; 

Then, — for  at  best 't  was  but  the  empty  type, 

The  husk  of  man  with  which  the  days  were  ripe, — 

Then,  he  foogot  her.     But,  for  you  that  slew  her, 
You,  her  own  sister,  that  with  airy  ease, 

47 


The  Story  of  Rosina. 

Just  for  a  moment's  fancy  could  undo  her, 

Pass  on  your  way.     A  little  while,  Marquise, 
Be  the  sky  silent,  be  the  sea  serene ; 
A  pleasant  passage — a  Sainte  Guillotine. 

As  for  Rosina, — for  the  quiet  sleeper, 

Whether  stone  hides  her,  or  the  happy  grass, 

If  the  sun  quickens,  if  the  dews  beweep  her, 
Laid  in  the  Madeleine  or  Montparnasse, 

Nothing  we  know, — but  that  her  heart  is  cold, 

Poor  beating  heart !    And  so  the  story  's  told. 
48 


PROVERBS  IN   PORCELAIN. 


PROLOGUE. 

ASSUME  that  we  are  friends.    Assume 
A  common  taste  for  old  costume, 

Old  pictures, — books.     Then  dream  us  sitting, — 
Us  two, — in  some  soft-lighted  room. 

Outside  the  wind ; — the  " ways  are  mire" 
We,  with  our  faces  towards  the  fire, 

Finished  the  feast  not  full  but  fitting, 
Watch  the  light-leaping fiames  aspire. 

Silent  at  first,  in  time  we  glow  ; 
Discuss  "  eclectics"  high  and  low  ; 

Inspect  engravings,  'twixt  us  passing 
The  fancies  of  DETROY,  MOREAU; 

"  Rei'eils  "  and  "  Catchers,"  "  Balls  "  and  "  Fetes  "f 
Anon  we  glide  to  "  crocks  "  and  plates, 
Grow  eloquent  on  glaze  and  classing, 
And  half-pathetic  crccr  "  states." 
49 


Prologue. 

Then  I  produce  my  Prize,  in  truth  ; — 
Six  groups  in  Si VRES,  fresh  as  Youth, 

And  rare  as  Love.     You  pause,  you  wonder^ 
(Pretend  to  doubt  the  marks,  forsooth  !) 

And  so  we  fall  to  why  and  how 
The  fragile  figures  smile  and  bow  ; 

Divine,  at  length,  the  fable  under .... 
Thus  grew  the  "  Scenes  "  that  follow  now. 
5° 


THE    BALLAD    A-LA-MODE. 

" Tout vient d point d  qui  peut atteiidre.n 

SCENE. — A  Boudoir  Louis-  Quinze,  painted  with  Cupid* 
shooting  at  Butterflies. 

THE  COUNTESS.     THE  BARON  (her  cousin  and  suitor). 

THE  COUNTESS  (looking  up  from  her  work). 
Baron,  you  doze. 

THE  BARON  (closing  his  book). 

I,  Madame?     No. 
I  wait  your  order — Stay  or  Go. 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Which  means,  I  think,  that  Go  or  Stay 
Affects  you  nothing,  either  way. 
51 


TJie  Ballad  a-la-Mode. 

THE  BARON. 

Excuse  me, — By  your  favour  graced 
My  inclinations  are  effaced. 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Or  much  the  same.     How  keen  you  grow 
You  must  be  reading  MARIVAUX. 

THE  BARON. 
Nay, — 't  was  a  song  of  SAINTE-AULAIRE. 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Then  read  me  one.     We  've  time  to  spare : 
If  I  can  catch  the  clock-face  there, 
T  is  barely  eight. 

THE  BARON. 

What  shall  it  be, — 
A  tale  of  woe,  or  perfidy  ? 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Not  woes,  I  beg.     I  doubt  your  woes : 
But  perfidy,  of  course,  one  knows. 

THE  BARON  (reads). 
"  Ah,  Phillis  !  cruel  Phillis  / 
(I  heard  a  Shepherd  sayj 
52 


The  Ballad  a- la- Mode. 

You  hold  me  with  your  Eyes,  and  yet 
You  bid  me — Go  my  way  ! 

"  Ah,  Colin  !  foolish  Colin  / 

(  The  Maiden  answered  so,) 

If  that  be  All,  the  III  is  small, 

I  close  them —  You  may  go  / 

"  But  when  her  Eyes  she  opened, 
(Although  the  Sun  it  shone,) 
She  found  the  Shepherd  had  not  stirred — 
'  Because  the  Light  ivas  gone  ! ' 

"Ah,  Cttpid .'  wanton  Cupid! 

'T  was  ever  thus  your  way  : 
When  Maids  would  bid  you  ply  your  Wings , 
You  find  Excuse  to  stay  !  " 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Famous !     He  earned  whate'er  he  got : — 
But  there  's  some  sequel,  is  there  not? 

THE  BARON  (turning  the  page). 
I  think  not. — No.     Unless  't  is  this : 
My  fate  is  far  more  hard  than  his; — 
In  fact,  your  Eyes — 
53 


The  Ballad  a-la-Mode. 

THE  COUNTESS. 

Now,  that 's  a  breach ! 
Your  bond  is — not  to  make  a  speech. 
And  we  must  start — so  call  JUSTINE. 
I  know  exactly  what  you  mean ! — 
Give  me  your  arm — 

THE  BARON. 

If,  in  return, 
Countess,  I  could  your  hand  but  earn ! 

THE  COUNTESS. 

I  thought  as  much.     This  conies,  you  see, 
Of  sentiment,  and  Arcady, 
Where  vows  are  hung  on  every  tree  .  .  . 

THE  BARON  (offering  his  artn,  with  a  low  bow), 
And  no  one  dreams — of  PERFIDY. 
54 


THE  METAMORPHOSIS. 

"  On  s'enruhit  quatid  on  dort." 

SCENE. — A  high  stone  Seat  in  an  Alky  of  clipped 
Lime-trees. 

THE  ABB£  TIRILI.  MONSIEUR  L'£TOILE. 

THE  ABBE  (writing). 
"  This  shepherdess  Dorine  adored — " 
What  rhyme  is  next  ?     Implored? — ignored? 
Poured? — soared? — afford?     That  facile  dunce, 
L'£TOILE,  would  cap  the  line  at  once. 
'T  will  come  in  time.     Meanwhile,  suppose 
We  take  a  meditative  doze. 

(Sleeps.     By-and-by  his  paper  falls.) 

M.  L'£TOILE  ( approaching  from  tJie  back). 
Some  one  before  me.     What !  't  is  you, 
Monsieur  the  Scholar  ?     Sleeping  too  I 
55 


The  Metamorphosis. 

(Picks  lip  the  fluttering  paper.) 

More  "  Tales"  of  course.     One  can't  iefu.sc 

To  chase  so  fugitive  a  Muse ! 

Verses  are  public,  too,  that  fly 
"  Cum  privilegio  " — Zephyri  ! 
(Reads.) 
"  CLITANDER  AND  DORINE."     Insane! 

He  fancies  he  's  a  LA  FONTAINE  ! 
"  In  early  days,  the  Gods,  we  find, 

Paid  frequent  Visits  to  Mankind  ; — 

At  least,  authentic  Records  say  so 

InPublius  Ovidius  Naso." 

(Three  names  for  one.     This  passes  all. 

'T  is  "  furiously"  classical !) 
"  No  doubt  their  Purpose  oft  would  be 

Some  '  Nodus  dignus  Vindice  ',• 
1  On  dit]  not  less,  these  earthly  Tours 

Were  mostly  matters  of  Amours. 

And  woe  to  him  whose  luck/ess  Flame 

Impeded  that  Olympic  Game  ; 

Ere  he  could  say  an  '  Ave '  o'er, 

They  changed  him — like  a  Louis-d'or." 

("Aves,"  and  current  coinage!     O! — 

O  shade  of  NICHOLAS  BOILEAU  !) 
56 


The  Metamorphosis, 

"  Bird,  Beast,  or  River  he  became  : 

• 

With  Women  it  was  much  the  same. 

In  Ovid  Case  to  Case  succeeds ; 

But  Names  the  Reader  never  reads" 

(That  is,  Monsieur  the  Abbe"  feels 

His  quantities  are  out  at  heels !) 
"  Suffices  that,  for  this  our  Tale, 

There  dwelt  in  a  Thessalian  Vale, 

Of  Tales  like  this  the  constant  Scene, 

A  Shepherdess,  by  name  Dorine. 

Trim  Waist,  ripe  Lips,  bright  Eyes,  had  she  /— 

In  short,  the  whole  Artillery. 

Her  Beauty  made  some  local  Stir ; — 

Men  marked  it.     So  did  Jupiter. 

This  Shepherdess  Dorine  adored  .  .  ." 

Implored,  ignored,  and  soared,  and  poured — 

(He  's  scrawled  them  here !)     We  '11  mm  in  brief 

His  fable  on  his  second  leaf. 
(Writes.) 

There,  they  shall  know  who  't  was  that  wrote : — 
"  L'fixoiLE's  is  but  a  mock-bird's  note."         [£xit. 

THE  ABB£  (waking). 

Implored 's  the  word,  I  think.     But  where, — 
Where  is  my  paper  ?     Ah  !  't  is  there ! 
Eh!  what? 

57 


The  Metamorphosis. 

(Reads.) 
THE  METAMORPHOSIS. 

(not  in  Ovid.) 

"  The  Shepherdess  Dorine  adored 
The  Shepherd- Boy  Clitander; 
Btft  Jove  himself,  Olympus'  Lord, 
The  Shepherdess  Dorine  adored. 
Our  Abb^s  Aid  the  Pair  Implored;— 
And  changed  to  Goose  and  Gander, 
TJie  Shepherdess  Dorine  adored 

T/ie  Shepherd- Boy  Clitander  1" 
L'fixoiLE, — by  all  the  Muses! 

Pestel 

He  's  off,  post-haste,  to  tell  the  rest. 
No  matter.     Laugh,  Sir  Dunce,  to-day ; 
Next  time  't  will  be  my  *urn  to  play. 
58 


THE  SONG  OUT  OF  SEASON. 
"  Point  de  culle  sans  mysttre." 

SCENE. — A   Corridor  in  a  Chateau,  with  Busts  and 
Venice  chandeliers. 

MONSIEUR  L'£TOILE.         Two  VOICES. 

M.  L'£TOILE  (carrying  a  Rose). 
This  is  the  place.     MUTINE  said  here. 
"  Through  the  Mancini  room,  and  near 
The  fifth  Venetian  chandelier  .  .  ." 
The  fifth  ? — She  knew  there  were  but  four ; — 
Still,  here  's  the  busto  of  the  Moor. 

(Humming.) 

Tra-la,  tra-la  /  If  BIJOU  wake, 
She  '11  bark,  no  doubt,  and  spoil  my  shake ! 
I  '11  tap,  I  think.     One  can't  mistake ; 
This  surely  is  the  door. 
59 


The  Song  Out  of  Season. 

(Sings  softly.) 
"  When  Jove,  the  Skies'  Director, 

First  saw  you  sleep  of  yore, 
He  cried  aloud  for  Nectar, 
'  TJie  Nectar  quickly  pour, — 
The  Nectar,  Hebe,  pour  ! '  " 

(No  sound.     I  '11  tap  once  more.) 

(Sings  again.} 

"  Then  came  the  Sire  Apollo, 
He  past  you  where  you  lay  ; 

*  Come,  Dian,  rise  and  follow 
The  dappled  Hart  to  slay,— 
The  rapid  Hart  to  slay:  " 

(A  rustling  within.) 
(Coquette !     She  heard  before.) 

(Sings  again.} 
"  And  urchin  Cupid  after 

Beside  the  Pillow  curled, 
He  whispered  you  with  Laughter, 
'  Awake  and  witch  the  World, — 
O  Venus,  witch  the  World/1" 

(Now  comes  the  last.     'T  is  scarcely  worse, 
I  think,  than  Monsieur  I'ABB£'S  verse.) 
60 


The  Song  Out  of  Season. 

"  So  waken,  waken,  waken, 

O  You,  wJwm  we  adore  ! 
Where  Gods  can  be  mistaken, 
Mere  Mortals  must  be  more, — 
Poor  Mortals  must  be  more  /  " 

(That  merits  an  encore  !) 

"  So  waken,  waken,  waken  ! 
O  YOU  whom  we  adore  I n 

(An  energetic  VOICED 
'T  is  thou,  ANTOINE  ?    Ah  Addle-pate ! 
Ah  Thief  of  Valet,  always  late ! 
Have  I  not  told  thee  half-past  eight 
A  thousand  times ! 

(Great  agitation.) 

But  wait, — but  wait, — 

M.  L'£TOILE  (stupefied). 
Just  Skies !     What  hideous  roar ! — 
What  lungs !     The  infamous  Soubrette ! 
This  is  a  turn  I  sha'n't  forget : — 
To  make  me  sing  my  chansonnette 
Before  old  JOURDAIN'S  door ! 
61 


The  Song  Out  of  Season. 

(Retiring  slowly.) 
And  yet,  and  yet, — it  can't  be  she. 
They  prompted  her.     Who  can  it  be  ? 

(A  second  VOICE.) 
IT  WAS  THE  ABB£  Ti — RI — LI  ! 

(In  a  mocking  falsetto.) 
"  Where  Gods  can  be  mistaken. 
Mere  Poets  must  be  more, — 
BAD  POETS  must  be  more  /" 
62 


THE  CAP  THAT  FITS. 

"  Qui  seme  Spines  n'aille  dechaux" 

SCENE. — A  Salon  with  blue  and  white  Panels.     Out- 
side, Persons  pass  and  re-pass  upon  a  Terrace. 

HORTENSE.     ARMANDE.     MONSIEUR  LOYAL. 

HORTENSE  (behind  her  fan). 
Not  young,  I  think. 

ARMANDE  (raising  her  eye-glass). 
And  faded,  too ! — 
Quite  faded !     Monsieur,  what  say  you  ? 

M.  LOYAL. 

Nay,  I  defer  to  you.     In  truth, 
To  me  she  seems  all  grace  and  youth. 
63 


The  Cap  that  Fits. 

HORTENSE. 

Graceful?     You  think  it?     What,  with  hands 
That  hang  like  this  (with  a  gesture). 

ARMANDE. 
And  how  she  stands ! 

M.  LOYAL. 

Nay,  1  am  wrong  again.     I  thought 
Her  air  delightfully  untaught  1 

HORTENSE. 
But  you  amuse  me — 

M.  LOYAL. 

Still  her  dress, — 
Her  dress  at  least,  you  must  confess — 

ARMANDE. 

Is  odious  simply !    JACOTOT 
Did  not  supply  that  lace,  I  know ; 
And  where,  I  ask,  has  mortal  seen 
A  hat  un feathered! 

HORTENSE. 

Edged  with  green ! 
64 


The  Cap  that  Fits. 

M.  LOYAL. 

The  word  reminds  me.     Let  me  say 
A  Fable  that  I  heard  to-day. 
Have  I  permission  ? 

BOTH  (with  enthusiasm). 

Monsieur,  pray ! 

M.  LOYAL. 

"  Myrtilla  (lest  a  Scandal  rise 
The  Lady's  Name  I  thus  disguise), 
Dying  of  Ennui,  once  decided, — 
Much  on  Resource  herself  she  prided, — 
To  choose  a  Hat.     Forthwith  she  flies 
On  that  momentous  Enterprise. 
Whether  to  Petit  or  Legros, 
I  know  not :  only  this  I  know  ; — 
Head-dresses  then,  of  any  Fashion, 
Bore  Names  of  Quality  or  Passion. 
Myrtilla  tried  them,  almost  all: 

4  Prudence]  she  felt,  was  somewJiat  sma>* 

'  Retirement '  seemed  the  Eyes  to  hide  ; 

1  Content]  at  once,  she  cast  aside. 

4  Simplicity] — V  was  out  of  place  ; 

4  Dci'otion]  for  an  older  face  ; 
65 


The  Cap  that  Fits. 

Briefly,  Selection  smaller  grew ', 
'  Vexatious  !  odious  / ' — none  would  do  I 
TJien,  on  a  sudden,  she  espied 
One  that  she  thought  she  had  not  tried: 
Becoming,  rattier, — '  edged  with  green,1 — 
Roses  in  yellow,  Thorns  between, 
*  Quick  !    Bring  me  tJiat  /'     T  is  brought. 

'  Complete, 

Divine,  Enchanting,  Tasteful,  Neat,1 
In  all  the  Tones.     *  And  this  you  call —  /  ' 
1 "  ILL-NATURE,"  Madame.    It  fits  all:  " 

HORTENSE. 

A  thousand  thanks !     So  naively  turned  1 

ARMANDE. 

So  useful  too, — to  those  concerned  1 
'T  is  yours  ? 

M.  LOYAL. 

Ah  no, — some  cynic  wit's ; 
And  called  (I  think) — 

(Placing  his  hat  upon  his  breast), 
"The  Cap  that  Fits." 
66 


THE  SECRETS  OF  THE  HEART. 

" Le  cceur  mine  oil  il  va." 

SCENE. — A  Chalet  covered  with  Honeysuckle. 
NINETTE.  NINOX. 

NINETTE. 
This  way — 

NINON. 
No,  this  way — 

NINETTE. 

This  way,  then. 
(They  enter  the  Chalet.) 
You  are  as  changing,  Child, — as  Men. 

NINON. 

But  are  they  ?     Is  it  true,  I  mean  ? 
Who  said  it  ? 

67 


Tlte  Secrets  of  tfie  Heart. 

NINETTE. 
Sister  SERAPHINE. 
She  was  so  pious  and  so  good, 
With  such  sad  eyes  beneath  her  hood, 
And  such  poor  little  feet, — all  bare ! 
Her  name  was  EUGENIE  LA  FERE. 
She  used  to  tell  us, — moonlight  nights, — 
When  I  was  at  the  Carmelites. 

NINON. 

Ah,  then  it  must  be  right.     And  yet, 
Suppose  for  once — suppose,  NINETTE — 

NINETTE. 
But  what  ? — 

NINON. 

Suppose  it  were  not  so  ? 
Suppose  there  were  true  men,  you  know  1 

NINETTE. 
And  then  ? 

NINON. 

Why, — if  that  could  occur, 
What  kind  of  man  should  you  prefer  ? 
68 


TJie  Secrets  of  tlie  Heart. 

NINETTE. 
What  looks,  you  mean  ? 

NINON. 

Looks,  voice  and  all 

NINETTE. 

Well,  as  to  that,  he  must  be  tall, 
Or  say,  not  "  tall," — of  middle  size ; 
And  next,  he  must  have  laughing  eyes, 
And  a  hook-nose, — with,  underneath, 
O !  what  a  row  of  sparkling  teeth ! — 

NINON  (touching  her  cheek  suspiciously). 
Has  he  a  scar  on  this  side  ? 

NINETTE. 

Hush! 

Someone  is  coming.     No;  a  thrush: 
I  see  it  swinging  there. 

NINON. 

Go  on. 

NINETTE. 
Then  he  must  fence,  (ah,  look,  't  is  gone !) 

And  dance  like  Monseigneur,  and  sing 
69 


T/ie  Secrets  of  tlie  Heart. 

"  Love  was  a  Shepherd": — everything 
That  men  do.     Tell  me  yours,  NINON. 

NINON. 

Shall  I  ?     Then  mine  has  black,  black  hair, 
I  mean  he  should  have ;  then  an  air 
Half  sad,  half  noble ;  features  thin ; 
A  little  royale  on  the  chin ; 
And  such  a  pale,  high  brow.     And  then, 
He  is  a  prince  of  gentlemen ; — 
He,  too,  can  ride  and  fence,  and  write 
Sonnets  and  madrigals,  yet  fight 
No  worse  for  that — 

NINETTE. 

I  know  your  man. 

NINON. 

And  I  know  yours.     But  you  '11  not  tell, — 
Swear  it ! 

NINETTE. 

I  swear  upon  this  fan, — 
My  Grandmother's! 

NINON. 

And  I,  I  swear 

On  this  old  turquoise  rcliquairc, — 
70 


The  Secrets  of  the  Heart. 

My  great, — great  Grandmother's  !  !— 
(After  a  pause.) 

NINETTE ! 
I  feel  so  sad. 

NINETTE. 
I  too.     But  why  ? 

NINON. 
Alas,  I  know  not ! 

NINETTE  (with  a  sigk). 
Nor  do  I. 


"GOOD-NIGHT,    BABETTE!" 

"  Si  vitillesse  pouvaitl — " 

SCENE. — A  small  neat  Room.     In  a  high  Voltaire  Chait 
sits  a  white-haired  old  Gentleman. 

MONSIEUR  VIEUXBOIS.        BABETTE. 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  (turning  querulously). 
Day  of  my  life !     Where  can  she  get  ? 
BABETTE !  I  say !  BABETTE  ! — BABETTE ! ! 

BABETTE  (entering  hurriedly). 
Coming,  M'sieu'!     If  M'sieu'  speaks 
So  loud  he  won't  be  well  for  weeks  1 

M.  VIEUXBOIS. 
Where  have  you  been  ? 

BABETrt. 

Why  M'sieu'  knows : — 
AprilL.Ville-d'AvrayL.Ma'am'selle  ROSE  I 
72 


"  Good-night,  Babette  !  " 

M.  VlEUXBOIS. 

Ah !  I  am  old, — and  I  forget. 

Was  the  place  growing  green,  BABETTE  ? 

BABETTE. 

But  of  a  greenness ! — yes,  M'sieu' ! 
And  then  the  sky  so  blue ! — so  blue  1 
And  when  I  dropped  my  immortelle, 
How  the  birds  sang ! 

(Lifting  her  apron  to  her  eyes,) 

This  poor  Ma'am'selle ! 

M.  VIEUXBOIS. 

You  're  a  good  girl,  BABETTE,  but  she, — 
She  was  an  Angel,  verily. 
Sometimes  I  think  I  see  her  yet 
Stand  smiling  by  the  cabinet; 
And  once,  I  know,  she  peeped  and  laughed 
Betwixt  the  curtains  .  .  . 

Where  's  the  draught  ? 
(She  gives  him  a  aif.) 
Now  I  shall  sleep,  I  think,  BABETTE;— 
Sing  me  your  Norman  chansonnette. 

BABETTE  (sing*). 
"  Once  at  the  Angelas 
(Ere  I  was  dead), 
73 


"  Good-night,  Babctte  !  " 

Angels  all  glorious 

Came  to  my  Bed ; — 
Angels  in  blue  and  white 

Crowned  on  the  Head" 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  (drowsily). 
"She  was  an  Angel"..." Once  she  laughed"... 
What,  was  I  dreaming? 

Where  's  the  draught  ? 

BABETTE   (showing  the  empty  cup). 
The  draught,  M'sieu'  ? 

M.  VIEUXBOIS. 

How  I  forget ! 
I  am  so  old  1     But  sing,  BABETTE  ! 

BABETTE  (sings). 
"  One  was  the  Friend  I  left 

Stark  in  the  Snow ; 
One  was  the  Wrife  that  died 

Long, — bng  <*g°  / 
One  was  the  Love  I  lost .  .  . 
How  could  she  know  ?  " 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  (murmuring). 
Ah,  PAUL  L.old  PAUL  L.EULALIE  too ! 
And  RosE...And  O  !  "the  sky  so  blue!" 
74 


"  Good-night,  Babette  !  " 

BABETTE  (sings). 
"  One  had  my  Mother's  eyes, 

Wistful  and  mild ; 
One  had  my  Father 's  face  ; 

One  was  a  Child : 
All  of  them  bent  to  me, — 

Sent  down  and  smiled!  " 
(He  is  asleep!) 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  (almost  inaudibly). 

"How  I  forget!" 
I  am  so  old ! "..."  Good-night,  BAEETTE  ! 

75 


EPILOGUE. 

Hcigho  /  how  chill  the  evenings  get  I 
Good-night,  NINON! — good-night,  NINETTE! 
Your  little  Play  is  played  and  finisJied  ;— 
Go  back,  then,  to  your  Cabinet ! 

LOYAL,  L'£TOILE  !  no  more  to-day  / 
Alas  !  they  heed  not  what  we  say  : 

TJiey  smile  with  ardour  undiminished ; 
But  we, — we  are  not  always  gay  J 
76 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


VIGNETTES  IN  RHYME. 


THE  DRAMA  OF  THE  DOCTOR'S  WINDOW. 

IN  THREE  ACTS,    WITH  A  PROLOGUE. 

"A  tedious  brief  scene  of  young  Pyramus, 
And  his  love  Thisbe ;  <very  tragical  mirth." 

— MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

"WELL,  I  must  wait!"     The  Doctor's  room, 

Where  I  used  this  expression, 
Wore  the  severe  official  gloom 
Attached  to  that  profession ; 
Rendered  severer  by  a  bald 

And  skinless  Gladiator, 
Whose  raw  robustness  first  appalled 
The  entering  spectator. 
79 


The  Drama  of  the  Doctor's  Window. 

No  one  would  call  "The  Lancet"  gay,- 

Few  could  avoid  confessing 
That  Jones  "On  Muscular  Decay" 

Is,  as  a  rule,  depressing: 
So,  leaving  both,  to  change  the  scene, 

I  turned  toward  the  shutter, 
And  peered  out  vacantly  between 

A  water-butt  and  gutter. 

Below,  the  Doctor's  garden  lay, 

If  thus  imagination 
May  dignify  a  square  of  clay 

Unused  to  vegetation, 
Filled  with  a  dismal-looking  swing — 

That  brought  to  mind  a  gallows — 
An  empty  kennel,  mouldering, 

And  two  dyspeptic  aloes. 

No  sparrow  chirped,  no  daisy  sprung, 

About  the  place  deserted ; 
Only  across  the  swing-board  hung 

A  battered  doll,  inverted, 
Which  sadly  seemed  to  disconcert 

The  vagrant  cat  that  scanned  it, 
Sniffed  doubtfully  around  the  skirt, 

But  failed  to  understand  it. 
80 


The  Drama  of  the  Doctor's  Window. 

A  dreary  spot !     And  yet,  I  own, 

Half  hoping  that,  perchance,  it 
Might,  in  some  unknown  way,  atone 

For  Jones  and  for  "The  Lancet," 
I  watched ;  and  by  especial  grace, 

Within  this  stage  contracted, 
Saw  presently  before  my  face 

A  classic  story  acted. 

Ah,  World  of  ours,  are  you  so  gray 
And  weary,  World,  of  spinning, 

That  you  repeat  the  tales  to-day 
You  told  at  the  beginning  ? 

For  lo  !  the  same  old  myths  that  made 
The  early  "stage  successes," 

Still  "hold  the  boards,"  and  still  are  played, 
"With  new  effects  and  dresses." 

Small,  lonely,  "  three-pair-backs  "  behold, 

To-day,  Alcestis  uying ; 
To-day,  in  farthest  Polar  cold, 

Ulysses'  bones  are  lying; 
Still  in  one's  morning  "Times"  one  rer.ds 

How  fell  an  Indian  Hector ; 
Still  clubs  discuss  Achilles'  steeds, 

Briseis'  next  protector ; — 
Si 


The  Drama  of  the  Doctor's  Window 

Still  Menelaus  brings,  we  see, 

His  oft-remanded  case  on; 
Still  somewhere  sad  Hypsipyle 

Bewails  a  faithless  Jason ; 
And  here,  the  Doctor's  sill  beside, 

Do  I  not  now  discover 
A  Thisbe,  whom  the  walls  divide 

From  Pyramus,  her  lover  ? 

ACT  THE  FIRST. 

Act  I.  began.     Some  noise  had  scared 

The  cat,  that  like  an  arrow 
Shot  up  the  wall  and  disappeared; 

And  then  across  the  narrow, 
Unweeded  path,  a  small  dark  thing, 

Hid  by  a  garden-bonnet, 
Passed  wearily  towards  the  swing, 

Paused,  turned,  and  climbed  upon  it 

A  child  of  five,  with  eyes  that  were 

At  least  a  decade  older, 
A  mournful  mouth,  and  tangled  hair 

Flung  careless  round  her  shoulder, 
Dressed  in  a  stiff  ill-fitting  frock, 

Whose  black  uncomely  rigour 
82 


TJte  Drama  of  the  Doctor's  Window. 

Seemed  to  sardonically  mock 
The  plaintive,  slender  figure. 

What  was  it  ?     Something  in  the  dress 

That  told  the  girl  unmothered ; 
Or  was  it  that  the  merciless 

Black  garb  of  mourning  smothered 
Life  and  all  light : — but  rocking  so, 

In  the  dull  garden-corner, 
The  lonely  swinger  seemed  to  grow 

More  piteous  and  forlorner. 

Then,  as  I  looked,  across  the  wall 

Of  "  next-door's  "  garden,  that  is — 
To  speak  correctly — through  its  tall 

Surmounting  fence  of  lattice, 
Peeped  a  boy's  face,  with  curling  hair, 

Ripe  lips,  half  drawn  asunder, 
And  round,  bright  eyes,  that  wore  a  stare 

Of  frankest  childish  wonder. 

Rounder  they  grew  by  slow  degrees, 

Until  the  swinger,  swerving, 
Made,  all  at  once,  alive  to  these 

Intentest  orbs  observing, 
83 


The  Drama  of  the  Doctor  s  Window. 

Gave  just  one  brief,  half-uttered  cry, 
And, — as  with  gathered  kirtle, 

Nymphs  fly  from  Pan's  head  suddenly 
Thrust  through  the  budding  myrtle, — 

Fled  in  dismay.     A  moment's  space, 

The  eyes  looked  almost  tragic ; 
Then,  when  they  caught  my  watching  fare, 

Vanished  as  if  by  magic ; 
And,  like  some  sombre  thing  beguiled 

To  strange,  unwonted  laughter, 
The  gloomy  garden  having  smiled, 

Became  the  gloomier  after. 

ACT  THE  SECOND. 

Yes :  they  were  gone,  the  stage  was  bare,— 

Blank  as  before ;  and  therefore, 
Sinking  within  the  patient's  chair, 

Half  vexed,  I  knew  not  wherefore, 
I  dozed ;  till,  startled  by  some  call, 

A  glance  sufficed  to  show  me, 
The  boy  again  above  the  wall, 

The  girl  erect  below  me. 

The  boy,  it  seemed,  to  add  a  force 
To  words  found  unavailing, 
84 


The  Drama  of  the  Doctor  s  Window. 

Had  pushed  a  striped  and  spotted  horse 
Half  through  the  blistered  paling, 

Where  now  it  stuck,  stiff-legged  and  straight 
While  he,  in  exultation, 

Chattered  some  half-articulate 
Excited  explanation. 

Meanwhile,  the  girl,  with  upturned  face, 

Stood  motionless,  and  listened ; 
The  ill-cut  frock  had  gained  a  grace, 

The  pale  hair  almost  glistened ; 
The  figure  looked  alert  and  bright, 

Buoyant  as  though  some  power 
Had  lifted  it,  as  rain  at  night 

Uplifts  a  drooping  flower. 

The  eyes  had  lost  their  listless  way, — 

The  old  life,,  tired  and  faded, 
Had  slipped  down  with  the  doll  that  lay 

Before  her  feet,  degraded ; 
She  only,  yearning  upward,  found 

In  those  bright  eyes  above  her 
The  ghost  of  some  enchanted  ground 

Where  even  Nurse  would  love  her. 

Ah,  tyrant  Time!  you  hold  the  book, 
We,  sick  and  sad,  begin  it ; 


The  Drama  of  tJte  Doctor's  Window 

You  close  it  fast,  if  we  but  look 
Pleased  for  a  meagre  minute ; 

You  closed  it  now,  for,  out  of  sight, 
Some  warning  finger  beckoned ; 

Exeunt  both  to  left  and  right ; — 
Thus  ended  Act  the  Second. 

ACT  THE  THIRD. 

Or  so  it  proved.     For  while  I  still 

Believed  them  gone  for  ever, 
Half  raised  above  the  window  sill, 

I  saw  the  lattice  quiver; 
And  lo,  once  more  appeared  the  head, 

Flushed,  while  the  round  mouth  pouted , 
"  Give  Tom  a  kiss,"  the  red  lips  said, 

In  style  the  most  undoubted. 

The  girl  came  back  without  a  thought , 

Dear  Muse  of  Mayfair,  pardon, 
If  more  restraint  had  not  been  taught 

In  this  neglected  garden ; 
For  these  your  code  was  all  too  stiff, 

So,  seeing  none  dissented, 
Their  unfeigned  faces  met  as  if 

Manners  were  not  invented. 
86 


The  Drama  of  the  Doctor's  Window. 

Then  on  the  scene, — by  happy  fate, 

When  lip  from  lip  had  parted, 
And,  therefore,  just  two  seconds  late, — 

A  sharp-faced  nurse-maid  darted ; 
Swooped  on  the  boy,  as  swoops  a  kite 

Upon  a  rover  chicken, 
And  bore  him  sourly  off,  despite 

His  well-directed  kicking. 

The  girl  stood  silent,  with  a  look 

Too  subtle  to  unravel, 
Then,  with  a  sudden  gesture  took 

The  torn  doll  from  the  gravel ; 
Hid  the  whole  face,  with  one  caress, 

Under  the  garden-bonnet, 
And,  passing  in,  I  saw  her  press 

Kiss  after  kiss  upon  it. 

Exeunt  omties.     End  of  play. 

It  made  the  dull  room  brighter, 
1'he  Gladiator  almost  gay, 

And  e'en  "  The  Lancet "  lighter. 
87 


AN  AUTUMN  IDYLL. 

"Swfft  Ttummtsl  rutuu  softly t  till  I  end  my  to*g.n 

— SPENSEK. 

LAWRENCE.        FRANK.        JACK. 

LAWRENCE. 

HERE,  where  the  beech-nuts  drop  among  the  grasses 
\  \  v  "" 

Push  the  boat  in,  and  throw  the  rope  ashore. 

\  *  •> 

Jack,  hand  me  out  the  claret  and  the  glasses ; 

Here  let  us  sit     We  landed  here  before. 

FRANK. 
Jack  *s  undecided.     Sajtformose  furr, 

Bent  in  a  dream  above  the ."  water  wan," 
Shall  we  row  higher,  for  the  reeds  are  fewer, 
There  by  the  pollards,  where  you  see  the  swan  ? 
83 


An  Autumn  Idyll. 

\  JACK-        \ 

Hist !    That 's  a^pike.    Look — nose  against  the  river 

Gaunt  as  a  wolf, — the  sly  old  privateer! 
Enter  a  gudgeon.     Snap, — a  gulp,  a  shiver; — 
Exit  the  gudgeon.     Let  us  anchor  here. 


FRANK  (in  the  grass). 
Jove,  what  a  day !     Black  Care  upon  the  crupper 

Nods  at  his  post,  and  slumbers  in  the  sun ; 
Half  of  Theocritus,  with  a  touch  of  Tupper, 

Chums  in  my  head.     The  frenzy  has  begun ! 

LAWRENCE. 

Sing  to  us  then.     Damcetas  in  a  choker, 
Much  out  of  tune,  will  edify  the  rooks. 

FRANK. 

Sing  you  again.     So  musical  a  croaker 
Surely  will  draw  the  fish  upon  the  hooks. 

JACK. 
Sing  while  you  may.     The  beard  of  manhood  still  is 

Faint  on  your  cheeks,  but  I,  alas  !  am  old. 
Doubtless  you  yet  believe  in  Amaryllis ; — 

Sing  me  of  Her,  whose  name  may  not  be  told. 
89 


An  Autumn  Idyll. 

FRANK. 

Listen,  O  Thames !     His  budding  beard  is  riper, 
Say — by  a  week.     Well,  Lawrence,  shall  we  sing  ? 

LAWRENCE. 

Yes,  if  you  will.     But  ere  I  play  the  piper, 
Let  him  declare  the  prize  he  has  to  bring. 

JACK. 
Hear  then,  my  Shepherds.     Lo,  to  him  accounted 

First  in  the  song,  a  Pipe  I  will  impart; — 
This,  my  Beloved,  marvellously  mounted, 

Amber  and  foam, — a  miracle  of  art. 

LAWRENCE. 

Lordly  the  gift.     O  Muse  of  many  numbers, 
Grant  me  a  soft  alliterative  song ! 

FRANK. 

Me  too,  O  Muse !     And  when  the  Umpire  slumber  i 
Sting  him  with  gnats  a  summer  evening  long. 

LAWRENCE. 
Not  in  a  cot,  begarlanded  of  spiders, 

Not  where  the  brook  traditionally  "purls," — 
No,  in  the  Row,  supreme  among  the  riders, 

Seek  I  the  gem, — the  paragon  of  girls. 
90 


An  Autumn  Idyll. 

FRANK 

Not  in  the  waste  of  column  and  of  coping, 
Not  in  the  sham  and  stucco  of  a  square, — 

No,  on  a  June-lawn,  to  the  water  sloping, 
Stands  she  I  honour,  beautifully  fair. 

LAWRENCE. 
Dark-haired  is  mine,  with  splendid  tresses  plaited 

Back  from  the  brows,  imperially  curled ; 
Calm  as  a  grand,  far-looking  Caryatid, 

Holding  the  roof  that  covers  in  a  world. 

FRANK. 
Dark-haired  is  mine,  with  breezy  ripples  swinging 

Loose  as  a  vine-branch  blowing  in  the  morn ; 
Eyes  like  the  morning,  mouth  for  ever  singing, 

Blithe  as  a  bird  new  risen  from  the  corn. 

LAWRENCE. 

Best  is  the  song  with  music  interwoven : 
Mine  's  a  musician, — musical  at  heart, — 

Throbi  to  the  gathered  grieving  of  Beethoven, 
Sways  to  the  light  coquetting  of  Mozart. 

FRANK. 

Best  ?    You  should  hear  mine  trilling  out  a  ballad, 
Queen  at  a  pic-nic,  leader  of  the  glees, 
91 


An  Autumn  Idyll. 

Not  too  divine  to  toss  you  up  a  salad, 
Great  in  Sir  Roger  danced  among  the  trees. 

LAWRENCE. 

Ah,  when  the  thick  night  flares  with  drooping  torches 
Ah,  when  the  crush-room  empties  of  the  swarm, 

Pleasant  the  hand  that,  in  the  gusty  porches, 
Light  as  a  snow-flake,  settles  on  your  arm. 

FRANK. 
Better  the  twilight  and  the  cheery  chatting, — 

Better  the  dim,  forgotten  garden-seat, 
Where  one  may  lie,  and  watch  the  fingers  tatting, 

Lounging  with  Bran  or  Bevis  at  her  feet. 

LAWRENCE. 

All  worship  mine.  Her  purity  doth  hedge  her 
Round  with  so  delicate  divinity,  that  men, 

Stained  to  the  soul  with  money-bag  and  ledger, 
Bend  to  the  goddess,  manifest  again. 

FRANK. 
None  worship  mine.     But  some,  I  fancy,  love  her,— 

Cynics  to  boot.     I  know  the  children  run, 
Seeing  her  come,  for  naught  that  I  discover, 

Save  that  she  brings  the  summer  and  the  sun. 
92 


An  Autumn  Idyll. 

LAWRENCE. 
Mine  is  a  Lady,  beautiful  and  queenly, 

Crowned  with  a  sweet,  continual  control, 
Grandly  forbearing,  lifting  life  serenely 

E'en  to  her  own  nobility  of  soul. 

FRANK. 
Mine  is  a  Woman,  kindly  beyond  measure, 

Fearless  in  praising,  faltering  in  blame ; 
Simply  devoted  to  other  people's  pleasure, — 

Jack's  sister  Florence, — now  you  know  her  name 

LAWRENCE. 

"  Jack's  sister  Florence ! "     Never,  Francis,  never. 
Jack,  do  you  hear  ?     Why,  it  was  she  I  meant. 
She  like  the  country !     Ah,  she  's  far  too  clever — 

FRANK. 
There  you  are  wrong.    I  know  her  down  in  Kent 

LAWRENCE. 

You  '11  get  a  sunstroke,  standing  with  your  head  bare. 
Sorry  to  differ.     Jack, — the  word  's  with  you. 

FRANK. 

How  is  it,  Umpire?     Though  the  motto  's  thread- 
bare, 

"  Ccefatn,  non  animum" — is,  I  take  it,  true. 
93 


An  Autumn  Idyll. 

JACK. 
Souvoit femme  varie"  as  a  nile,  is  truer; 

Flattered,  I  'm  sure, — but  both  of  you  romance 
Happy  to  further  suit  of  either  wooer, 

Merely  observing — you  have  n't  got  a  chance. 

LAWRENCE. 
Yes.     But  the  Pipe — 

FRANK. 
The  Pipe  is  what  we  care  for, — 

JACK. 

Well,  in  this  case,  I  scarcely  need  explain, 
Judgment  of  mine  were  indiscreet,  and  therefore,— 
Peace  to  you  both.    The  Pipe  I  shall  retain. 
94 


A  GARDEN  IDYLL 

A  LA.DY.  A  POET. 

THE  LADY. 
SIR  POET,  ere  you  crossed  the  lawn 

(If  it  was  wrong  to  watch  you,  pardon,) 
Behind  this  weeping  birch  withdrawn, 

I  watched  you  saunter  round  the  garden. 
I  saw  you  bend  beside  the  phlox, 

Pluck,  as  you  passed,  a  sprig  of  myrtle, 
Review  my  well-ranged  hollyhocks, 

Smile  at  the  fountain's  slender  spurtle ; 

You  paused  beneath  the  cherry-tree, 

Where  my  marauder  thrush  was  singing, 

Peered  at  the  bee-hives  curiously, 
And  narrowly  escaped  a  stinging; 
95 


A  Garden  Idyll. 

And  then — you  see  I  watched — you  passed 
Down  the  espalier  walk  that  reaches 

Out  to  the  western  wall,  and  last 

Dropped  on  the  seat  before  the  peaches. 

What  was  your  thought  ?     You  waited  long. 

Sublime  or  graceful, — grave, — satiric? 
A  Morris  Greek-and- Gothic  song? 

A  tender  Tennysonian  lyric  ? 
Tell  me.     That  garden-seat  shall  be, 

So  long  as  speech  renown  disperses, 
Illustrious  as  the  spot  where  he — 

The  gifted  Blank — composed  his  verses. 

THE  POET. 
Madam, — whose  uncensorious  eye 

Grows  gracious  over  certain  pages, 
Wherein  the  Jester's  maxims  lie, 

It  may  be,  thicker  than  the  Sage's — 
I  hear  but  to  obey,  and  could 

Mere  wish  of  mine  the  pleasure  do  you, 
Some  verse  as  whimsical  as  Hood, — 

As  gay  as  Praed, — should  answer  to  you. 

But,  though  the  common  voice  proclaims 
Our  only  serious  vocation 
96 


A  Garden  Idyll. 

Confined  to  giving  nothings  names, 

And  dreams  a  "local  habitation"; 
Believe  me  there  are  tuneless  days, 

When  neither  marble,  brass,  nor  vellum, 
Would  profit  much  by  any  lays 

That  haunt  the  poet's  cerebellum. 

More  empty  things,  I  fear,  than  rhymes, 

More  idle  things  than  songs,  absorb  it ; 
The  "finely-frenzied"  eye,  at  times, 

Reposes  mildly  in  its  orbit ; 
And — painful  truth — at  times,  to  him, 

Whose  jog-trot  thought  is  nowise  restive, 
"  A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim  " 

Is  absolutely  unsuggestive. 

The  fickle  Muse !     As  ladies  will, 

She  sometimes  wearies  of  her  wooer; 
A  goddess,  yet  a  woman  still, 

She  flies  the  more  that  we  pursue  her ; 
In  short,  with  worst  as  well  as  best, 

Five  months  in  six,  your  hapless  poet 
Is  just  as  prosy  as  the  rest, 

But  cannot  comfortably  show  it. 

You  thought,  no  doubt,  the  garden-scent 

Brings  back  some  brief-winged  bright  sensation 
97 


A  Garden  Idyll. 

Of  love  that  came  and  love  that  went, — 
Some  fragrance  of  a  lost  flirtation, 

Born  when  the  cuckoo  changes  song, 
Dead  ere  the  apple's  red  is  on  it, 

That  should  have  been  an  epic  long, 
Yet  scarcely  served  to  fill  a  sonnet. 

Or  else  you  thought, — the  murmuring  noon, 

He  turns  it  to  a  lyric  sweeter, 
With  birds  that  gossip  in  the  tune, 

And  windy  bough-swing  in  the  metre ; 
Or  else  the  zigzag  fruit-tree  arms 

Recall  some  dream  of  harp-prest  bosoms, 
Round  singing  mouths,  and  chanted  charms, 

And  mediaeval  orchard  blossoms, — 

Quite  a  la  mode.     Alas  for  prose, — 

My  vagrant  fancies  only  rambled 
Back  to  the  red-walled  Rectory  close, 

Where  first  my  graceless  boyhood  gamboled, 
Climbed  on  the  dial,  teased  the  fish, 

And  chased  the  kitten  round  the  beeches, 
Till  widening  instincts  made  me  wish 

For  certain  slowly-ripening  peaches. 

Three  peaches.     Not  the  Graces  three 
Had  more  equality  of  beauty : 
98 


A  Garden  Idyll. 

I  would  not  look,  yet  went  to  see ; 

I  wrestled  with  Desire  and  Duty ; 
I  felt  the  pangs  of  those  who  feel 

The  Laws  of  Property  beset  them ; 
The  conflict  made  my  reason  reel, 

And,  half-abstractedly,  I  ate  them ; — 

Or  Two  of  them.     Forthwith  Despair — 

More  keen  that  one  of  these  was  rotten — 
Moved  me  to  seek  some  forest  lair 

Where  I  might  hide  and  dwell  forgotten, 
Attired  in  skins,  by  berries  stained, 

Absolved  from  brushes  and  ablution ; — 
But,  ere  my  sylvan  haunt  was  gained, 

Fate  gave  me  up  to  execution. 

I  saw  it  all  but  now.     The  grin 

That  gnarled  old  Gardener  Sandy's  features ; 
My  father,  scholar-like  and  thin, 

Unroused,  the  tenderest  of  creatures ; 
I  saw — ah  me — I  saw  again 

My  dear  and  deprecating  mother ; 
And  then,  remembering  the  cane, 

Regretted — that  7  '</  left  the  other. 
99 


TU  QUOQUE 

AN    IDYLL    IN    THE    CONS  t  R  V  AT  DR  Y. 

"  — romproiis-notu, 
Ou  ne  romprons-nons  pas  ?  " 

— LE  D£PIT  AMOUREUX 

NELLIE. 

IF  I  were  you,  when  ladies  at  the  play,  sir, 
Beckon  and  nod,  &  melodrama  through, 
I  would  not  turn  abstractedly  away,  sir, 
If  I  were  you ! 

FRANK. 
If  I  were  you,  when  persons  I  affected, 

Wait  for  three  hours  to  take  me  down  to  Kew, 
I  would,  at  least,  pretend  I  recollected, 

If  I  were  you ! 

100 


Tu  Quoque. 

NELLIE. 
If  I  were  you,  when  ladies  are  so  lavish, 

Sir,  as  to  keep  me  every  waltz  but  two, 
I  would  not  dance  with  odious  Miss  M'Tavish, 

If  I  were  you ! 

FRANK. 
If  I  were  you,  who  vow  you  cannot  suffer 

Whiff  of  the  best, — the  mildest  "  honey-dew," 
I  would  not  dance  with  smoke-consuming  Puffer, 

If  I  were  you ! 

NELLIE. 

If  I  were  you,  I  would  not,  sir,  be  bitter, 
Even  to  write  the  "  Cynical  Review"  ; — 

FRANK. 

No,  I  should  doubtless  find  flirtation  fitter, 
If  I  were  you ! 

NELLIE. 
Really !     You  would  ?     Why,  Frank,  you  're  quite 

delightful,— 

Hot  as  Othello,  and  as  black  of  hue; 
Borrow  my  fan.     I  would  not  look  so  frightful, 
If  I  were  you ! 

101 


Tu  Quoque. 

FRANK. 
"  It  is  the  cause."     I  mean  your  chaperon  is 

Bringing  some  well-curled  juvenile.     Adieu! 
/  shall  retire.     I  'd  spare  that  poor  Adonis, 
If  I  were  you ! 

• 
NELLIE. 

Go,  if  you  will.     At  once!    And  by  express,  sir! 

Where  shall  it  be  ?     To  China— or  Peru  ? 
Go.     I  should  leave  inquirers  my  address,  sir, 

If  I  were  you ! 

FRANK. 
No, — I  remain.     To  stay  and  fight  a  duel 

Seems,  on  the  whole,  the  proper  thing  to  do — 
Ah,  you  are  strong, — I  would  not  then  be  cruel, 

If  I  were  you ! 

NELLIE. 
One  does  not  like  one's  feelings  to  be  doubted, — 

FRANK. 
One  does  not  like  one's  friends  to  misconstrue,- 

NELLIE. 
If  I  confess  that  I  a  wee-bit  pouted  ?— 


Tu  Quoque. 

FRANK. 
I  should  admit  that  I  wasfifue,  too. 


NELLIE. 

Ask  me  to  dance,     I  'd  say  no  more  about  it, 
If  I  were  you  ! 

[Waltz—  Exeunt.} 
103 


A  DIALOGUE  FROM  PLATO. 

••  Le  temps  It  mieux  employ/  est  eelui  q,fon  perd" 

— CLAUDE  TILLIER. 

I  'D  "read"  three  hours.     Both  notes  and  text 

Were  fast  a  mist  becoming ; 
In  bounced  a  vagrant  bee,  perplexed, 

And  filled  the  room  with  humming, 

Then  out.     The  casement's  leafage  sways, 

And,  parted  light,  discloses 
Miss  DL,  with  hat  and  book, — a  maze 

Of  muslin  mixed  with  roses. 

"  You  're  reading  Greek  ? "     "I  am — and  you  ? " 

"  O,  mine  's  a  mere  romancer ! " 
"  So  Plato  is."     "  Then  read  him— do ; 

And  I  '11  read  mine  in  answer." 
.     104 


A  Dialogue  from  Plato. 

I  read.    "  My  Plato  (Plato,  too,— 
That  wisdom  thus  should  harden !) 

Declares  '  blue  eyes  look  doubly  blue 
Beneath  a  Dolly  Varden.' " 

She  smiled.     "  My  book  in  turn  avers 

(No  author's  name  is  stated) 
That  sometimes  those  Philosophers 

Are  sadly  mis-translated." 

"  But  hear, — the  next 's  in  stronger  style : 

The  Cynic  School  asserted 
That  two  red  lips  which  part  and  smile 
May  not  be  controverted ! " 

She  smiled  once  more — "  My  book,  I  find, 
Observes  some  modern  doctors 

Would  make  the  Cynics  out  a  kind 
Of  album- verse  concoctors." 

Then  I — "  Why  not  ?     <  Ephesian  law, 

No  less  than  time's  tradition, 
Enjoined  fair  speech  on  all  who  saw 

DIANA'S  apparition.' " 

She  blushed — this  time.     "  If  Plato's  page 

No  wiser  precept  teaches, 
105    . 


A  Dialogue  from  Plato. 

Then  I  'd  renounce  that  doubtful  sage, 
And  walk  to  Burnham-beeches." 

"  Agreed,"  I  said.    "  For  Socrates 

(I  find  he  too  is  talking) 
Thinks  Learning  can't  remain  at  ease 
While  Beauty  goes  a-walking." 

She  read  no  more.     I  leapt  the  sill : 
The  sequel  's  scarce  essential — 

Nay,  more  than  this,  I  hold  it  still 
Profoundly  confidential. 
106 


THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  ROSE. 

POOR  Rose !     I  lift  you  from  the  street — 

Far  better  I  should  own  you 
Than  you  should  lie  for  random  feet 

Where  careless  hands  have  thrown  you 

Poor  pinky  petals,  crushed  and  torn ! 

Did  heartless  Mayfair  use  you, 
Then  cast  you  forth  to  lie  forlorn, 

For  chariot  wheels  to  bruise  you  ? 

I  saw  you  last  in  Edith's  hair. 

Rose,  you  would  scarce  discover 
That  I  she  passed  upon  the  stair 

Was  Edith's  favoured  lover, 

A  month — "a  little  month" — ago— 

O  theme  for  moral  writer ! — 
107 


The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose. 

'Twixt  you  and  me,  my  Rose,  you  know, 
She  might  have  been  politer; 

But  let  that  pass.     She  gave  you  then — 

Behind  the  oleander — 
To  one,  perhaps,  of  all  the  men, 

Who  best  could  understand  her, — 

Cyril,  that,  duly  flattered,  took, 

As  only  Cyril  's  able, 
With  just  the  same  Arcadian  look 

He  used,  last  night,  for  Mabel ; 

Then,  having  waltzed  till  every  star 
Had  paled  away  in  morning, 

Lit  up  his  cynical  cigar, 

And  tossed  you  downward,  scorning. 

Kismet,  my  Rose !     Revenge  is  sweet,—- 
She  made  my  heart-strings  quiver; 

And  yet — You  shan't  lie  in  the  street, 
I  '11  drop  you  in  the  River. 
1 08 


LOVE  IN  WINTER. 

BETWEEN  the  berried  holly-bush 
The  Blackbird  whistled  to  the  Thrush : 
"  Which  way  did  bright-eyed  Bella  go  ? 
Look,  Speckle-breast,  across  the  snow,— 
Are  those  her  dainty  tracks  I  see, 
That  wind  toward  the  shrubbery  ?  " 

The  Throstle  pecked  the  berries  still. 
"  No  need  for  looking,  Yellow-bill ; 
Young  Frank  was  there  an  hour  ago, 
Half  frozen,  waiting  in  the  snow ; 
His  callow  beard  was  white  with  rime, — 
Tchuck, — 't  is  a  merry  pairing-time ! " 

"  What  would  you  ?  "  twittered  in  the  Wren ; 

"  These  are  the  reckless  ways  of  men. 
109 


Love  in  Winter. 

I  watched  them  bill  and  coo  as  though 
They  thought  the  sign  of  Spring  was  snow ; 
If  men  but  timed  their  loves  as  we, 
'T  would  save  this  inconsistency." 

"  Nay,  Gossip,"  chirped  the  Robin,  "nay; 
I  like  their  unreflective  way. 
Besides,  I  heard  enough  to  show 
Their  love  is  proof  against  the  snow : — 
Why  wait,'  he  said,  '  why  wait  for  May, 
When  love  can  warm  a  winter's  day  ? ' " 
no 


POT-POURRI, 

"Si ftunes;>  savait?—" 

I  PLUNGE  my  hand  among  the  leaves : 
(An  alien  touch  but  dust  perceives, 

Nought  else  supposes ;) 
For  me  those  fragrant  ruins  raise 
Clear  memory  of  the  vanished  days 

When  they  were  roses. 

"  If  youth  but  knew ! "    Ah,  "  if,"  in  truth- 
I  can  recall  with  what  gay  youth, 

To  what  light  chorus, 
Unsobered  yet  by  time  or  change, 
We  roamed  the  many-gabled  Grange, 

All  life  before  us ; 
in 


Pot-PourrL 

Braved  the  old  clock-tower's  dust  and  damp 
To  catch  the  dim  Arthurian  camp 

In  misty  distance ; 

Peered  at  the  still-room's  sacred  stores, 
Or  rapped  at  walls  for  sliding  doors 

Of  feigned  existence. 

What  need  had  we  for  thoughts  or  cares ! 
The  hot  sun  parched  the  old  parterres 

And  "flowerful  closes"; 
We  roused  the  rooks  with  rounds  and  glees, 
Played  hide-and-seek  behind  the  trees, — 

Then  plucked  these  roses. 

Louise  was  one — light,  glib  Louise, 
So  freshly  freed  from  school  decrees 

You  scarce  could  stop  her ; 
And  Bell,  the  Beauty,  unsurprised 
At  fallen  locks  that  scandalized 

Our  dear  "Miss  Proper:" — 

Shy  Ruth,  all  heart  and  tenderness, 
Who  wept — like  Chaucer's  Prioress, 

When  Dash  was  smitten ; 
Who  blushed  before  the  mildest  men, 
Yet  waxed  a  very  Corday  when 

You  teased  her  kitten. 

I  12 


Pot-Pourri. 

I  loved  them  all.     Bell  first  and  best ; 
Louise  the  next — for  days  of  jest 

Or  madcap  masking ; 
And  Ruth,  I  thought, — why,  failing  these, 
When  my  High-Mightiness  should  please 

She  'd  come  for  asking. 

Louise  was  grave  when  last  we  met ; 
Bell's  beauty,  like  a  sun,  has  set ; 

And  Ruth,  Heaven  bless  her, 
Ruth  that  I  wooed, — and  wooed  in  vain, 
Has  gone  where  neither  grief  nor  pain 

Can  now  distress  her. 
"3 


DOROTHY. 

A  REVERIE  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  NAME  UPON  A  PANE. 

SHE  then  must  once  have  looked,  as  I 
Look  now,  across  the  level  rye, — 
Past  Church  and  Manor-house,  and  seen, 
As  now  I  see,  the  village  green, 
The  bridge,  and  Walton's  river — she 
Whose  old-world  name  was  "  Dorothy." 

The  swallows  must  have  twittered,  too, 
Above  her  head ;  the  roses  blew 
Below,  no  doubt, — and,  sure,  the  South 
Crept  up  the  wall  and  kissed  her  mouth, — 
That  wistful  mouth,  which  comes  to  me 

Linked  with  her  name  of  Dorothy. 
114 


Dorothy. 

W  hat  was  she  like  ?     I  picture  her 
Unmeet  for  uncouth  worshipper ; — 
Soft, — pensive, — far  too  subtly  graced 
To  suit  the  blunt  bucolic  taste, 
Whose  crude  perception  could  but  see 
"  Ma'am  Fine-airs"  in  Miss  Dorothy. 

How  not  ?     She  loved,  may  be,  perfume, 
Soft  textures,  lace,  a  half-lit  room; — 
Perchance  too  candidly  preferred 
''  Clarissa  "  to  a  gossip's  word ; — 
And,  for  the  rest,  would  seem  to  be 
Or  proud,  or  dull — this  Dorothy. 

Poor  child,  with  heart  the  down-lined  nest 
Of  warmest  instincts  unconfest, 
Soft  callow  things  that  vaguely  felt 
The  breeze  caress,  the  sunlight  melt, 
But  yet,  by  some  obscure  decree 
Unwinged  from  birth ; — poor  Dorothy ! 

Not  less  I  dream  her  mute  desire 
To  acred  churl  and  booby  squire, 
Now  pale,  with  timorous  eyes  that  filled 
At  "  twice-told  tales  "  of  foxes  killed ; — 
Now  trembling  when  slow  tongues  grew  free 
'Twixt  sport,  and  Port — and  Dorothy ! 
"5 


Dorothy. 

T  was  then  she  'd  seek  this  nook,  and  find 
Its  evening  landscape  balmy-kind ; 
And  here,  where  still  her  gentle  name 
Lives  on  the  old  green  glass,  would  frame 
Fond  dreams  of  unfound  harmony 
'Twixt  heart  and  heart.     Poor  Dorothy ! 

L'ENVOI. 

These  last  I  spoke.     Then  Florence  said, 
Below  me, — "  Dreams  ?     Delusions,  Fred ! ' 
Next,  with  a  pause, — she  bent  the  while 
Over  a  rose,  with  roguish  smile — 
"  But  how  disgusted,  sir,  you  '11  be 
To  hear  /scrawled  that ' Dorothy." 
116 


AVICE. 

"  On  serait  tentf  d(  liiidire,  Bonjour,  Mademoiselle  (a  Bergeron 
netle" — VICTOR  HUGO. 

THOUGH  the  voice  of  modern  schools 
Has  demurred, 

By  the  dreamy  Asian  creed 

'T  is  averred, 

That  the  souls  of  men,  released 

From  their  bodies  when  deceased, 

Sometimes  enter  in  a  beast, — 
Or  a  bird. 

I  have  watched  you  long,  Avice, — 
Watched  you  so, 

I  have  found  your  secret  out ; 
And  I  know 

That  the  restless  ribboned  things, 

Where  your  slope  of  shoulder  springs, 

Are  but  undeveloped  wings 

That  will  grow. 
117 


A  vice. 

When  you  enter  in  a  room, 

It  is  stirred 
With  the  wayward,  flashing  flight 

Of  a  bird ; 

And  you  speak — and  bring  with  you 
Leaf  and  sun-ray,  bud  and  blue, 
And  the  wind-breath  and  the  dew 
At  a  word. 

When  you  called  to  me  my  name, 

Then  again 
When  I  heard  your  single  cry 

In  the  lane, 

All  the  sound  was  as  the  "  sweet " 
Which  the  birds  to  birds  repeat 
In  their  thank-song  to  the  heat 
After  rain. 

When  you  sang  the  Schwalbenlied, 
'T  was  absurd,— 

But  it  seemed  no  human  note 

That  I  heard ; 

For  your  strain  had  all  the  trills, 

All  the  little  shakes  and  stills, 

Of  the  over-song  that  rills 

From  a  bird. 
118 


A  vice. 

You  have  just  their  eager,  quick 
"  Airs  de  tete? 
All  their  flush  and  fever-heat 

When  elate; 

Every  bird-like  nod  and  beck, 
And  a  bird's  own  curve  of  neck 
When  she  gives  a  little  peck 

To  her  mate. 

When  you  left  me,  only  now, 

In  that  furred, 
Puffed,  and  feathered  Polish  dress, 

I  was  spurred 

Just  to  catch  you,  O  my  Sweet, 
By  the  bodice  trim  and  neat, — 
Just  to  feel  your  heart  a-beat, 
Like  a  bird. 

Yet,  alas !     Love's  light  you  deign 
But  to  wear 

As  the  dew  upon  your  plumes, 
And  you  care 

Not  a  whit  for  rest  or  hush ; 

But  the  leaves,  the  lyric  gush, 

And  the  wing-power,  and  the  rush 

Of  the  air. 
119 


A  vice. 

So  I  dare  not  woo  you,  Sweet, 
For  a  day, 

Lest  I  lose  you  in  a  flash, 

As  I  may ; 

Did  I  tell  you  tender  things, 

You  would  shake  your  sudden  wings  ;- 

You  would  start  from  him  who  sings, 
And  away. 

I2O 


THE  LOVE-LETTER. 


'ai  vu  les  mceurs  de  man  terns,  etfaipublUcette  kttre." 

— LA  NOUVELLE  HELOISE. 


IF  this  should  fail,  why  then  I  scarcely  know 
What   could  succeed.       Here  's   brilliancy   (and 
banter), 

Byron  ad  lib.,  a  chapter  of  Rousseau ; — 
If  this  should  fail,  then  tempera  mutantiir ; 

Style  's  out  of  date,  and  love,  as  a  profession, 

Acquires  no  aid  from  beauty  of  expression. 

"  The  men  who  think  as  I,  I  fear,  are  few," 

(Cynics  would  say 't  were  well  if  they  were  fewer] 

"  I  am  not  what  I  seem," — (indeed,  't  is  true; 
Though,  as  a  sentiment,  it  might  be  newer) ; 

"  Mine  is  a  soul  whose  deeper  feelings  lie 
More  deep  than  words  " — (as  these  exemplify). 

121 


The  Love-Letter. 

"  I  will  not  say  when  first  your  beauty's  sun 
Illumed  my  life," — (it  needs  imagination) ; 

11  For  me  to  see  you  and  to  love  were  one," — 
(This  will  account  for  some  precipitation) ; 

"  Let  it  suffice  that  worship  more  devoted 
Ne'er  throbbed,"  et  ccstera.     The  rest  is  quoted. 

"  If  Love  can  look  with  all-prophetic  eye," — 
(Ah,  if  he  could,  how  many  would  be  single!), 

"  If  truly  spirit  unto  spirit  cry," — 

(The  ears  of  some  most  terribly  must  tingle !) 

"  Then  I  have  dreamed  you  will  not  turn  your  face/ 
This  next,  I  think,  is  more  than  commonplace. 

"  Why  should  we  speak,  if  Love,  interpreting, 
Forestall  the  speech  with  favour  found  before  ? 

Why  should  we  plead  ? — it  were  an  idle  thing, 
If  Love  himself  be  Love's  ambassador ! " 

Blot,  as  I  live.     Shall  we  erase  it  ?     No ; — 

T  will  show  we  write  currents  calamo. 

"  My  fate, — my  fortune,  I  commit  to  you," — 
(In  point  of  fact,  the  latter  's  not  extensive) ; 

"  Without  you  I  am  poor  indeed," — (strike  through, 
T  is  true  but  crude — 't  would  make  her  apprehen 
sive) ; 


The  Love- Letter. 

''  My  life  is  yours — I  lay  it  at  your  feet," 
(Having  no  choice  but  Hymen  or  the  Fleet). 

"  Give  me  the  right  to  stand  within  the  shrine, 

Where  never  yet  my  faltering  feet  intruded ; 
Give  me  the  right  to  call  you  wholly  mine," — 

(That  is,  Consols  and  Three  per  Cents  included) ; 
"  To  guard  your  rest  from  every  care  that  cankers, — 
To  keep  your  life," — (and  balance  at  your  banker's). 

"  Compel  me  not  to  long  for  your  reply ; 

Suspense   makes  havoc  with  the  mind"  —  (and 

muscles) ; 
"  Winged  Hope  takes  flight," — (which  means  that  I 

must  fly, 

Default  of  funds,  to  Paris  or  to  Brussels) ; 
"  I  cannot  wait !     My  own,  my  queen — Priscilla ! 
Write  by  return."     And  now  for  a  Manilla ! 

'  Miss  Blank,"  at  "Blank."    Jemima,  let  it  go ; 

And  I,  meanwhile,  will  idle  with  "Sir  Walter;" 
Stay,  let  me  keep  the  first  rough  copy,  though — 

'T  will  serve  again.    There  's  but  the  name  to  alter, 
And   Love,  —  that  needs,  —  must  knock   at  every 

portal, 

In  formft,  pauperi*.     We  are  but  mortal ! 
123 


THE  MISOGYNIST. 

**  II  /tail  unjfune  homme  tTun  bien  beau  passf." 

WHEN  first  he  sought  our  haunts,  he  wore 

His  locks  in  Hamlet-style ; 
His  brow  with  thought  was  "sicklied  o'er,"- 

We  rarely  saw  him  smile ; 
And,  e'en  when  none  were  looking  on, 
His  air  was  always  woe-begone. 

He  kept,  I  think,  his  bosom  bare 

To  imitate  Jean  Paul ; 
His  solitary  topics  were 

^Esthetics,  Fate,  and  Soul ; — 
Although  at  times,  but  not  for  long, 

He  bowed  his  Intellect  to  song. 
124 


TJie  Misogynist. 

He  served,  he  said,  a  Muse  of  Tears : 

I  know  his  verses  breathed 
A  fine  funereal  air  of  biers, 

And  objects  cypress-wreathed ; — 
Indeed,  his  tried  acquaintance  fled 
'An  ode  he  named  "The  Sheeted  Dead." 

In  these  light  moods,  I  call  to  mind, 

He  darkly  would  allude 
To  some  dread  sorrow  undefined, — 

Some  passion  unsubdued ; 
Then  break  into  a  ghastly  laugh, 
And  talk  of  Keats  his  epitaph. 

He  railed  at  women's  faith  as  Cant; 

We  thought  him  grandest  when 
He  named  them  Siren-shapes  that  "  chant 

On  blanching  bones  of  Men;" — 
Alas,  not  e'en  the  great  go  free 
From  that  insidious  minstrelsy! 

His  lot,  he  oft  would  gravely  urge, 

Lay  on  a  lone  Rock  where 
Around  Time-beaten  bases  surge 

The  Billows  of  Despair. 
We  dreamed  it  true.     We  never  knew 
What  gentler  ears  he  told  it  to. 
I25 


The  Misogynist. 

We,  bound  with  him  in  common  care, 

One-minded,  celibate, 
Resolved  to  Thought  and  Diet  spare 

Our  lives  to  dedicate ; — 
We,  truly,  in  no  common  sense 
Deserved  his  closest  confidence ! 

But  soon,  and  yet,  though  soon,  too  late, 
We,  sorrowing,  sighed  to  find 

A  gradual  softness  enervate 
That  all  superior  mind, 

Until, — in  full  assembly  met, 

He  dared  to  speak  of  Etiquette. 

The  verse  that  we  severe  had  known, 

Assumed  a  wanton  air, — 
A  fond  effeminate  monotone 

Of  eyebrows,  lips,  and  hair ; 
Not  rjSoS  stirred  him  now  or  vovS, 
He  read  "The  Angel  in  the  House!" 

Nay  worse.     He,  once  sublime  to  chaff) 

Grew  whimsically  sore 
If  we  but  named  a  photograph 

We  found  him  simpering  o'er; 
Or  told  how  in  his  chambers  lurked 

A  watch-guard  :ntricately  worked. 
126 


The  Misogynist. 

Then  worse  again.     He  tried  to  dress ; 

He  trimmed  his  tragic  mane ; 
Announced  at  length  (to  our  distress) 

He  had  not  "  lived  in  vain  " ; — 
Thenceforth  his  one  prevailing  mood 
Became  a  base  beatitude. 

And  O  Jean  Paul,  and  Fate,  and  Soul ! 

We  met  him  last,  grown  stout, 
His  throat  with  wedlock's  triple  roll, 
"All  wool," — en  wound  about; 
His  very  hat  had  changed  its  brim  ; — 
Our  course  was  clear, — WE  BANISHED  HIM  ! 
127 


A  VIRTUOSO. 

BE  seated,  pray.     "A  grave  appeal"? 

The  sufferers  by  the  war,  of  course ; 
Ah,  what  a  sight  for  us  who  feel, — 

This  monstrous  melodrame  of  Force ! 
We,  sir,  we  connoisseurs,  should  know, 

On  whom  its  heaviest  burden  falls ; 
Collections  shattered  at  a  blow, 

Museums  turned  to  hospitals ! 

"  And  worse,"  you  say ;  "  the  wide  distress ! " 

Alas,  't  is  true  distress  exists, 
Though,  let  me  add,  our  worthy  Press 
Have  no  mean  skill  as  colourists ; — 
Speaking  of  colour,  next  your  seat 

There  hangs  a  sketch  from  Vernet's  hand ; 
Some  Moscow  fancy,  incomplete, 
Yet  not  indifferently  planned ; 
128 


A  Virtuoso. 

Note  specially  the  gray  old  Guard, 

Who  tears  his  tattered  coat  to  wrap 
A  closer  bandage  round  the  scarred 

And  frozen  comrade  in  his  lap ; — 
But,  as  regards  the  present  war, — 

Now  don't  you  think  our  pride  of  pence 
Goes — may  I  say  it  ? — somewhat  far 

For  objects  of  benevolence  ? 

You  hesitate.     For  my  part,  I — 

Though  ranking  Paris  next  to  Rome, 
^Esthetically — still  reply 

That  "  Charity  begins  at  Home." 
The  words  remind  me.     Did  you  catch 

My  so-named  "  Hunt"  ?    The  girl 's  a  gem ; 
And  look  how  those  lean  rascals  snatch 

The  pile  of  scraps  she  brings  to  them ! 

"  But  your  appeal 's  for  home,"- — you  say, — 
For  home,  and  English  poor !     Indeed ! 

I  thought  Philanthropy  to-day 

Was  blind  to  mere  domestic  need — 

However  sore — Yet  though  one  grants 
That  home  should  have  the  foremost  claims, 

At  least  these  Continental  wants 

Assume  intelligible  names ; 
129 


A  Virtuoso. 

While  here  with  us — Ah !  who  could  hope 

To  verify  the  varied  pleas, 
Or  from  his  private  means  to  cope 

With  all  our  shrill  necessities ! 
Impossible !     One  might  as  well 

Attempt  comparison  of  creeds ; 
Or  fill  that  huge  Malayan  shell 

With  these  half-dozen  Indian  beads. 

Moreover,  add  that  every  one 

So  well  exalts  his  pet  distress, 
T  is — Give  to  all,  or  give  to  none, 

If  you  'd  avoid  invidiousness. 
Your  case,  I  feel,  is  sad  as  A.'s, 

The  same  applies  to  B.'s  and  C.'s; 
By  my  selection  I  should  raise 

An  alphabet  of  rivalries ; 

And  life  is  short, — I  see  you  look 
At  yonder  dish,  a  priceless  bit ; 

You  '11  find  it  etched  in  Jacquemart's  book, 
They  say  that  Raphael  painted  it ; — 

And  life  is  short,  you  understand ; 
So,  if  I  only  hold  you  out 

An  open  though  an  empty  hand, 

Why,  you  '11  forgive  me,  I  've  no  doubt. 
130 


A  Virttwso. 

Nay,  do  not  rise.     You  seem  amused ; 

One  can  but  be  consistent,  sir! 
'T  was  on  these  grounds  I  just  refused 

Some  gushing  lady-almoner, — 
Believe  me,  on  these  very  grounds. 

Good-bye,  then.  Ah,  a  rarity ! 
That  cost  me  quite  three  hundred  pounds,- 

That  Durer  figure, — "  Chanty." 


LAISSEZ  FAIRE. 

••  Propkete  rechts,  PropheU  links, 
Das  Weltkind  in  dtr  Mitten." 

— GOETHE'S  DM  t« 

To  left,  here  's  B.,  half-Communist, 
Who  talks  a  chastened  treason, 

And  C,  a  something-else  in  "ist," 
Harangues,  to  right,  on  Reason. 

B.,  from  his  "tribune,"  fulminates 
At  Throne  and  Constitution, 

Nay,  with  the  walnuts,  advocates 
Reform  by  revolution ; 

While  C.'s  peculiar  coterie 

Have  now  in  full  rehearsal 
Some  patent  new  Philosophy 

To  make  doubt  universal. 
132 


Laissez  Faire. 

And  yet — why  not  ?     If  zealots  burn, 

Their  zeal  has  not  affected 
My  taste  for  salmon  and  Sauterne, 

Or  I  might  have  objected : — 

Friend  B.,  the  argument  you  choose 

Has  been  by  France  refuted ; 
And  C.,  mon  cher,  your  novel  views 

Are  just  Tom  Paine  diluted ; 

There  *s  but  one  creed, — that 's  Laissez  faire  ; 

Behold  its  mild  apostle ! 
My  dear,  declamatory  pair, 

Although  you  shout  and  jostle, 

Not  your  ephemeral  hands,  nor  mine, 
Time's  Gordian  knots  shall  sunder, — 

Will,  laid  three  casks  of  this  old  wine : 

Who  '11  drink  the  last,  I  wonder  ? 

133 


TO   Q.  H.  F. 

SUGGESTED   BY  A  CHAPTER   IN   THEODORE    MARTIN'S 
"  HORACE," 

("ANCIENT  CLASSICS  FOR  ENGLISH  READERS.") 

"  HORATIUS  FLACCUS,  B.C.  8,?> 
There  's  not  a  doubt  about  the  date, — 

You  're  dead  and  buried : 
As  you  observed,  the  seasons  roll ; 
And  'cross  the  Styx  full  many  a  soul 

Has  Charon  ferried, 

Since,  mourned  of  men  and  Muses  nine, 
They  laid  you  on  the  Esquiline. 

And  that  was  centuries  ago  I 

You  'd  think  we  'd  learned  enough,  I  know, 

To  help  refine  us, 
134 


To  Q.  H.  F. 

Since  last  you  trod  the  Sacred  Street, 
And  tacked  from  mortal  fear  to  meet 

The  bore  Crispinus ; 
Or,  by  your  cold  Digentia,  set 
The  web  of  winter  birding-net. 

Ours  is  so  far-advanced  an  age ! 
Sensation  tales,  a  classic  stage, 

Commodious  villas ! 
We  boast  high  art,  an  Albert  Hall, 
Australian  meats,  and  men  who  call 

Their  sires  gorillas ! 
We  have  a  thousand  things,  you  see, 
Not  dreamt  in  your  philosophy. 

And  yet,  how  strange!     Our  "world,"  to-day, 
Tried  in  the  scale,  would  scarce  outweigh 

Your  Roman  cronies ; 
Walk  in  the  Park — you  '11  seldom  fail 
To  find  a  Sybaris  on  the  rail 

By  Lydia's  ponies, 

Or  hap  on  Barrus,  wigged  and  stayed, 
Ogling  some  unsuspecting  maid. 

The  great  Gargilius,  then,  behold ! 
His  "long-bow"  hunting  tales  of  old 
Are  now  but  duller ; 


To  Q.  H.  F. 

Fair  Neobule  too !     Is  not 

One  Hebrus  here — from  Aldershot  ? 

Aha,  you  colour! 
Be  wise.     There  old  Canidia  sits ; 
No  doubt  she  's  tearing  you  to  bits. 

And  look,  dyspeptic,  brave,  and  kind, 
Comes  dear  Maecenas,  half  behind 

Terentia's  skirting; 

Here  's  Pyrrah,  "  golden-haired  "  at  will ; 
Prig  Damasippus,  preaching  still ; 

Asterie  flirting, — 

Radiant,  of  course.     We  '11  make  her  black,- 
Ask  her  when  Gyges'  ship  comes  back. 

So  with  the  rest.     Who  will  may  trace 
Behind  the  new  each  elder  face 

Defined  as  clearly ; 

Science  proceeds,  and  man  stands  still ; 
Our  "world"  to-day  's  as  good  or  ill, — 

As  cultured  (nearly), 
As  yours  was,  Horace !    You  alone, 
Unmatched,  unmet,  we  have  not  known. 
136 


TO  "LYDIA  LANGUISH." 

"  //  mefaui  det  Emotions" 

— BLANCHE  AMORY. 

You  ask  me,  Lydia,  "  whether  I, 
If  you  refuse  my  suit,  shall  die." 

(Now  pray  don't  let  this  hurt  you) ; 
Although  the  time  be  out  of  joint, 
I  should  not  think  a  bodkin's  point 

The  sole  resource  of  virtue; 
Nor  shall  I,  though  your  mood  endure, 
Attempt  a  final  Water-cure 

Except  against  my  wishes ; 
For  I  respectfully  decline 
To  dignify  the  Serpentine, 

And  make  Jwrs-d'axevres  for  fishes ; 
But,  if  you  ask  me  whether  I 

Composedly  can  go, 
Without  a  look,  without  a  sigh, 

Why,  then  I  answer — No. 
137 


To  " Lydia  Languish." 

"  You  are  assured,"  you  sadly  say 
(If  in  this  most  considerate  way 

To  treat  my  suit  your  will  is), 
That  I  shall  "quickly  find  as  fair 
Some  new  Neasra's  tangled  hair— 

Some  easier  Amaryllis." 
I  cannot  promise  to  be  cold 
If  smiles  are  kind  as  yours  of  old 

On  lips  of  later  beauties ; 
Nor  can  I  hope  to  quite  forget 
The  homage  that  is  Nature's  debt, 

While  man  has  social  duties; 
But,  if  you  ask  shall  I  prefer 

To  you  I  honour  so 
A  somewhat  visionary  Her, 

I  answer  truly — No. 

You  fear,  you  frankly  add,  "  to  find 
In  me  too  late  the  altered  mind 

That  altering  Time  estranges." 
To  this  I  make  response  that  we 
(As  physiologists  agree), 

Must  have  septennial  changes; 
This  is  a  thing  beyond  control, 
And  it  were  best  upon  the  whole 

To  try  and  find  out  whether 
138 


To  " Lydia  Languish" 

We  could  not,  by  some  means,  arrange 
This  not-to-be-avoided  change 

So  as  to  change  together : 
But,  had  you  asked  me  to  allow 

That  you  could  ever  grow 
Less  amiable  than  you  are  now, — 

Emphatically — No. 

But — to  be  serious — if  you  care 
To  know  how  I  shall  really  bear 

This  much-discussed  rejection, 
I  answer  you.     As  feeling  men 
Behave,  in  best  romances,  when 

You  outrage  their  affection ; — 
With  that  gesticulatory  woe, 
By  which,  as  melodramas  show, 

Despair  is  indicated ; 
Enforced  by  all  the  liquid  grief 
Which  hugest  pocket-handkerchief 

Has  ever  simulated ; 
And  when,  arrived  so  far,  you  say 

In  tragic  accents  "Go," 
Then,  Lydia,  then — I  still  shall  stay, 

And  firmly  answer  No. 
139 


A    GAGE     D'AMOUR. 
(HORACE,  HI,  8.) 

"  Afartiis  cakbs  quid  agam  Kaltndu, 
mirarisf  " 

CHARLES, — for  it  seems  you  wish  to  know,- 
You  wonder  what  could  scare  me  so, 
And  why,  in  this  long-locked  bureau, 

With  trembling  fingers, — 
With  tragic  air,  I  now  replace 
This  ancient  web  of  yellow  lace, 
Among  whose  faded  folds  the  trace 

Of  perfume  lingers. 

Friend  of  my  youth,  severe  as  true, 
I  guess  the  train  your  thoughts  pursue; 
But  this  my  state  is  nowise  due 

To  indigestion ; 
140 


A  Gage  d' Amour. 

I  had  forgotten  it  was  there, 

A  scarf  that  Some-one  used  to  wear. 

Hitu  ilia  lachrima, — so  spare 

Your  cynic  question. 

Some-one  who  is. not  girlish  now, 

And  wed  long  since.     We  meet  and  bow ; 

I  don't  suppose  our  broken  vow 

Affects  us  keenly ; 
Yet,  trifling  though  my  act  appears, 
Your  Sternes  would  make  it  ground  for  tears  ;- 
One  can't  disturb  the  dust  of  years, 

And  smile  serenely. 

"  My  golden  locks"  are  gray  and  chill, 
For  hers, — let  them  be  sacred  still ; 
But  yet,  I  own,  a  boyish  thrill 

Went  dancing  through  me, 
Charles,  when  I  held  yon  yellow  lace ; 
For,  from  its  dusty  hiding-place, 
Peeped  out  an  arch,  ingenuous  face 
That  beckoned  to  me. 

We  shut  our  heart  up,  now-a-days, 
Like  some  old  music-box  that  plays 
Unfashionable  airs  that  raise 

Derisive  pity ; 
141 


A  Gage  d' Amour. 

Alas, — a  nothing  starts  the  spring; 
And  lo,  the  sentimental  thing 
At  once  commences  quavering 
Its  lover's  ditty. 

Laugh,  if  you  like.    The  boy  in  me, — 

The  boy  that  was, — revived  to  see 

The  fresh  young  smile  that  shone  when  she, 

Of  old,  was  tender. 

Once  more  we  trod  the  Golden  Way, — 
That  mother  you  saw  yesterday, 
And  I,  whom  none  can  well  portray 

As  young,  or  slender. 

She  twirled  the  flimsy  scarf  about 
Her  pretty  head,  and  stepping  out, 
Slipped  arm  in  mine,  with  half  a  pout 

Of  childish  pleasure. 
Where  we  were  bound  no  mortal  knows, 
For  then  you  plunged  in  Ireland's  woes. 
And  brought  me  blankly  back  to  prose 

And  Gladstone's  measure. 

Well,  well,  the  wisest  bend  to  Fate. 
My  brown  old  books  around  me  wait, 
My  pipe  still  holds,  unconfiscate, 

Its  wonted  station. 
142 


A  Gage  d' Amour. 

Pass  me  the  wine.     To  Those  that  keep 
The  bachelor's  secluded  sleep 
Peaceful,  inviolate,  and  deep, 
I  pour  libation. 
143 


CUPID'S    ALLEY. 

A  MORALITY. 

O,  Lave  's  but  a  dance, 

Where  Time  plays  thefiddltl 
See  the  couples  advance,— 
O,  Lffve  's  but  a  dance  I 
A  whisper,  a  glance, — 

"  Shall  we  twirl  down  the  middle  f ' 
O,  Love  's  but  a  dance, 

Where  Time  plays  thefiddltt 

IT  runs  (so  saith  my  Chronicler) 

Across  a  smoky  City ; — 
A  Babel  filled  with  buzz  and  whirr, 

Huge,  gloomy,  black  and  gritty; 
Dark-louring  looks  the  hill-side  near, 

Dark-yawning  looks  the  valley, — 
But  here  't  is  always  fresh  and  clear, 

For  here— is  "  Cupid's  Alley." 
144 


Cupid's  Alley. 

And,  from  an  Arbour  cool  and  green, 

With  aspect  down  the  middle, 
An  ancient  Fiddler,  gray  and  lean, 

Scrapes  on  an  ancient  riddle ; 
Alert  he  seems,  but  aged  enow 

To  punt  the  Stygian  galley ; — 
With  wisp  of  forelock  on  his  brow, 

He  plays — in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

All  day  he  plays, — a  single  tune ! — 

But,  by  the  oddest  chances, 
Gavotte,  or  Brawl,  or  Rigadoon, 

It  suits  all  kinds  of  dances ; 
My  Lord  may  walk  a  pas  de  Cour 

To  Jenny's  pas  de  Chalet ; — 
The  folks  who  ne'er  have  danced  before, 

Can  dance — in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

And  here,  for  ages  yet  untold, 

Long,  long  before  my  ditty, 
Came  high  and  low,  and  young  and  old, 

From  out  the  crowded  City ; 
And  still  to-day  they  come,  they  go, 

And  just  as  fancies  tally, 
They  foot  it  quick,  they  foot  it  slow, 

All  day— in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


Cupid's  Alley. 

Strange  dance !     'T  is  free  to  Rank  and  Rags ; 

Here  no  distinction  flatters, 
Here  Riches  shakes  its  money-bags 

And  Poverty  its  tatters ; 
Church,  Army,  Navy,  Physic,  Law; — 

Maid,  Mistress,  Master,  Valet; 
Long  locks,  gray  hairs,  bald  heads,  and  a', — 

They  bob— in  "Cupid's  Alley." 

Strange  pairs !     To  laughing,  fresh  Fifteen 

Here  capers  Prudence  thrifty ; 
Here  Prodigal  leads  down  the  green 

A  blushing  Maid  of  fifty ; 
Some  treat  it  as  a  serious  thing, 

And  some  but  shilly-shally ; 
And  some  have  danced  without  the  ring 

(Ah  me!)— in  "Cupid's  Alley." 

And  sometimes  one  to  one  will  dance, 

And  think  of  one  behind  her; 
And  one  by  one  will  stand,  perchance, 

Yet  look  all  ways  to  find  her ; 
Some  seek  a  partner  with  a  sigh, 

Some  win  him  with  a  sally ; 
And  some,  they  know  not  how  nor  why, 

Strange  fate !— of  "  Cupid's  Alley." 
146 


Cupid's  Alley. 

And  some  will  dance  an  age  or  so 

Who  came  for  half  a  minute; 
And  some,  who  like  the  game,  will  go 

Before  they  well  begin  it ; 
And  some  will  vow  they  're  "  danced  to  death," 

Who  (somehow)  always  rally; 
Strange  cures  are  wrought  (mine  author  saith), 

Strange  cures ! — in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

It  may  be  one  will  dance  to-day, 

And  dance  no  more  to-morrow ; 
It  may  be  one  will  steal  away 

And  nurse  a  life-long  sorrow ; 
What  then  ?     The  rest  advance,  evade, 

Unite,  dispart,  and  dally, 
Re-set,  coquet,  and  gallopade, 

Not  less— in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 

For  till  that  City's  wheel-work  vast 

And  shuddering  beams  shall  crumble  ;•— 
And  till  that  Fiddler  lean  at  last 

From  off  his  seat  shall  tumble; — 
Till  then  (the  Civic  records  say), 

This  quaint,  fantastic  ballet 
Of  Go  and  Stay,  of  Yea  and  Nay, 

Must  last — in  "  Cupid's  Alley." 


THE  IDYLL  OF  THE  CARP 

(The  Scene  is  in  a  garden, — where  you  please, 
So  that  it  lie  in  France,  and  have  withal 

Its  gray-stoned  pond  beneath  the  arching  trees, 
And  Triton  huge,  with  moss  for  coronal. 

A  PRINCESS, — feeding  Fish.    To  her  DENISE.) 

THE  PRINCESS. 
These,  DEMISE,  are  my  Suitors ! 

DENISE, 

Where? 

THE  PRINCESS. 

These  fish. 

I  feed  them  daily  here  at  morn  and  night 
With  crumbs  of  favour, — scraps  of  graciousness, 
Not  meant,  indeed,  to  mean  the  thing  they  wish, 
But  serving  just  to  edge  an  appetite. 

(  Thriving  bread.) 
Make  haste,  Messieurs  !    Make  haste,  then  !    Hurry 

See,— 

148 


The  Idyll  of  tJie  Carp. 

See  how  they  swim!     Would  you  not  say,  confesr, 
Some  crowd  of  Courtiers  in  the  audience  hall, 
When  the  King  comes  ? 

DENISE. 

You  're  jesting ! 

THE  PRINCESS. 

Not  at  all. 
Watch   but  the   great  one  yonder !      There  's  the 

Duke  ;— 

Those  gill-marks  mean  his  Order  of  St.  Luke ; 
Those  old  skin-stains  his  boasted  quarterings. 
Look  what  a  swirl  and  roll  of  tide  he  brings ; 
Have  you  not  marked  him  thus,  with  crest  in  air, 
Breathing  disdain,  descend  the  palace-stair  ? 
You  surely  have,  DENISE. 

DENISE. 

I  think  I  have. 

But  there  's  another,  older  and  more  grave, — 
The  one  that  wears  the  round  patch  on  the  throat 
And  swims  with  such  slow  fins.     Is  he  of  note  ? 

THE  PRINCESS. 
Why  that  's  my  good  cJiambellan — with  his  seal. 

A  kind  old  man ! — he  carves  me  orange-peel 
149 


TJie  Idyll  of  the  Carp. 

In  quaint  devices  at  refection-hours, 
Equips  my  sweet-pouch,  brings  me  morning  flowers 
Or  chirrups  madrigals  with  old,  sweet  words, 
Such  as  men  loved  when  people  wooed  like  birds 
And  spoke  the  true  note  first.     No  suitor  he, 
Yet  loves  me  too, — though  in  a  graybeard's  key. 

DENISE. 

Look,  Madam,  look ! — a  fish  without  a  stain  I 
O  speckless,  fleckless  fish !     Who  is  it  pray, 
That  bears  him  so  discreetly  ? 

THE  PRINCESS. 

FONTENAY. 

You  know  him  not  ?     My  prince  of  shining  locks ! 
My  pearl ! — my  Phoenix  ! — my  pomander-box ! 
He  loves  not  Me,  alas !     The  man  's  too  vain ! 
He  loves  his  doublet  better  than  my  suit, — 
His  graces  than  my  favours.     Still  his  sash 
Sits  not  amiss,  and  he  can  touch  the  lute 
Not  wholly  out  of  tune — 

DENISE. 

Ai !  what  a  splash ! 

Who  is  it  comes  with  such  a  sudden  dash 
Plump  i'  the  midst,  and  leaps  the  others  clear  ? 
'5° 


The  Idyll  of  the  Carp. 

THE  PRINCESS. 

Ho !  for  a  trumpet !     Let  the  bells  be  rung ! 
Baron  of  Sans-terre,  Lord  of  Pres-en-Cieux, 
Vidame  of  Vol-au-  Vent — "  et  aultrcs  licux  /  " 
Bah !  How  I  hate  his  Gasconading  tongue ! 
Why,  that  's  my  bragging,  Bravo- Musketeer— 
My  carpet  cut-throat,  valiant  by  a  scar 
Got  in  a  brawl  that  stands  for  Spanish  war : — 
His  very  life  's  a  splash ! 

DENISE. 

I  'd  rather  wear 

E'en  such  a  patched  and  melancholy  air, 
As  his, — that  motley  one, — who  keeps  the  wall, 
And  hugs  his  own  lean  thoughts  for  carnival. 

THE  PRINCESS. 

My  frankest  wooer!     Thus  his  love  he  tells 
To  mournful  moving  of  his  cap  and  bells. 
He  loves  me  (so  he  saith)  as  Slaves  the  Free, — 
As  Cowards  War, — as  young  Maids  Constancy. 
Item,  he  loves  me  as  the  Hawk  the  Dove ; 
He  loves  me  as  the  Inquisition  Thought; — 

DENISE. 
"He  loves?— he  loves?"     Why  all   this  loving 's 

naught ! 


The  Idyll  of  the  Carp. 

THE  PRINCESS. 

And  "  Naught  (quoth  JACQUOT)  makes  the  sum  ol 
Love!" 

DEXISE. 

The  cynic  knave !     How  call  you  this  one  here  ? — 
This  small  shy-looking  fish,  that  hovers  near, 
And  circles,  like  a  cat  around  a  cage, 
To  snatch  the  surplus. 

THE  PRINCESS. 

CH£RUBIN,  the  page. 

T  is  but  a  child,  yet  with  that  roguish  smile, 
And  those  sly  looks,  the  child  will  make  hearts  ache 
Not  five  years  hence,  I  prophesy.     Meanwhile 
He  lives  to  plague  the  swans  upon  the  lake, 
To  steal  my  comfits,  and  the  monkey's  cake. 

DENISE. 
And  these — that  swim  aside — who  may  these  be  ? 

THE  PRINCESS. 

Those — are  two  gentlemen  of  Picardy, 
Equal  in  blood, — of  equal  bravery : — 
D'AURELLES  and  MAUFRIGNAC.   They  hunt  in  pair; 
I  mete  them  morsels  with  an  equal  care, 
Lest  they  should  eat  each  other, — or  eat  Me. 
'52 


The  Idyll  •>/  tfte  Carp. 

DENISE. 
And  that — and  that — and  that  ? 

THE  PRINCESS. 

I  name  them  not. 

Those  are  the  crowd  who  merely  think  their  lot 
The  lighter  by  my  land. 

DENISE. 

And  is  there  none 

More  prized  than  most  ?  There  surely  must  be  one,— 
A  Carp  of  carps ! 

THE  PRINCESS. 

Ah  me ! — he  will  not  come ! 
He  swims  at  large, — looks  shyly  on, — is  dumb. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  I  think  he  fain  would  nibble, 
But  while  he  stays  with  doubts  and  fears  to  quibble, 
Some  gilded  fop,  or  mincing  courtier-fribble, 
Slips  smartly  in, — and  gets  the  proffered  crumb. 
He  should  have  all  my  crumbs — if  he  'd  but  ask; 
Nay,  an  he  would,  it  were  no  hopeless  task 
To  gain  a  something  more.    But  though  he  's  brave, 
He  's  far  too  proud  to  be  a  dangling  slave ; 
And  then — he  's  modest !     So  ...  he  will  not  come ! 
r53 


THE  SUNDIAL. 

T  is  an  old  dial,  dark  with  many  a  stain ; 

In  summer  crowned  with  drifting  orchard  bloom, 
Tricked  in  the  autumn  with  the  yellow  rain, 

And  white  in  winter  like  a  marble  tomb ; 

And  round  about  its  gray,  time-eaten  brow 

Lean  letters  speak — a  worn  and  shattered  row : 

J  am  a  SJjafce:  a  S^Jjatiotoe  too  arte  ttjou: 
J  mark*  tfje  flume:  gajje,  ©osstp,  tost  tljou 

0*1? 

Here  would  the  ringdoves  linger,  head  to  head ; 

And  here  the  snail  a  silver  course  would  run, 
Beating  old  Time;  and  here  the  peacock  spread 

His  gold-green  glory,  shutting  out  the  sun. 
154 


TJie  Sundial. 

The  tardy  shade  moved  forward  to  the  noon; 

Betwixt  the  paths  a  dainty  Beauty  slept, 
That  swung  a  flower,  and,  smiling,  hummed  a  tune, — 

Before  whose  feet  a  barking  spaniel  leapt. 

O'er  her  blue  dress  an  endless  blossom  strayed; 

About  her  tendril-curls  the  sunlight  shone ; 
And  round  her  train  the  tiger-lilies  swayed, 

Like  courtiers  bowing  till  the  queen  be  gone. 

She  leaned  upon  the  slab  a  little  while, 

Then  drew  a  jewelled  pencil  from  her  zone, 

Scribbled  a  something  with  a  frolic  smile, 
Folded,  inscribed,  and  niched  it  in  the  stone. 

The  shade  slipped  on,  no  swifter  than  the  snail ; 

There  came  a  second  lady  to  the  place, 
Dove-eyed,  dove-robed,  and  something  wan  and  pale — 

An  inner  beauty  shining  from  her  face. 

She,  as  if  listless  with  a  lonely  love, 

Straying  among  the  alleys  with  a  book, — 

Herrick  or  Herbert, — watched  the  circling  dove, 
And  spied  the  tiny  letter  in  the  nook. 
155 


The  Sundial. 

Then,  like  to  one  who  confirmation  found 
Of  some  dread  secret  half-accounted  true, — 

Who  knew  what  hands  and  hearts  the  letter  bound, 
And  argued  loving  commerce  'twixt  the  two, 

She  bent  her  fair  young  forehead  on  the  stone ; 

The  dark  shade  gloomed  an  instant  on  her  head ; 
And  'twixt  her  taper-fingers  pearled  and  shone 

The  single  tear  that  tear-worn  eyes  will  shed. 

The  shade  slipped  onward  to  the  falling  gloom ; 

There  came  a  soldier  gallant  in  her  stead, 
Swinging  a  beaver  with  a  swaling  plume, 

A  ribboned  love-lock  rippling  from  his  head ; 

Blue-eyed,  frank-faced,  with  clear  and  open  brow, 
Scar-seamed  a  little,  as  the  women  love ; 

So  kindly  fronted  that  you  marvelled  how 

The  frequent  sword-hilt  had  so  frayed  his  glove ; 

Who  switched  at  Psyche  plunging  in  the  sun ; 

Uncrowned  three  lilies  with  a  backward  swinge ; 
And  standing  somewhat  widely,  like  to  one 

More  used  to  "Boot  and  Saddle"  than  to  cringe 


The  Sundial. 

As  courtiers  do,  but  gentleman  withal, 
Took  out  the  note ; — held  it  as  one  who  feared 

The  fragile  thing  he  held  would  slip  and  fall ; 
Read  and  re-read,  pulling  his  tawny  beard; 

Kissed  it,  I  think,  and  hid  it  in  his  breast ; 

Laughed  softly  in  a  flattered  happy  way, 
Arranged  the  broidered  baldrick  on  his  chest, 

And  sauntered  past,  singing  a  roundelay. 

The  shade  crept  forward  through  the  dying  glow: 
There  came  no  more  nor  dame  nor  cavalier; 

But  for  a  little  time  the  brass  will  show 
A  small  gray  spot — the  record  of  a  tear. 


AN  UNFINISHED  SONG. 

•'  Canttit  Deo  qui  vivit  Deo." 

YES,  he  was  well-nigh  gone  and  near  his  rest. 

The  year  could  not  renew  him ;  nor  the  cry 
Of  building  nightingales  about  the  nest ; 

Nor  that  soft  freshness  of  the  May-wind's  sigh 

That  fell  before  the  garden  scents,  and  died 
Between  the  ampler  leafage  of  the  trees  : 

All  these  he  knew  not,  lying  open-eyed, 

Deep  in  a  dream  that  was  not  pain  nor  ease, 

But  death  not  yet.     Outside  a  woman  talked — 
His  wife  she  was — whose  clicking  needles  sped 

To  faded  phrases  of  complaint  that  balked 
My  rising  words  of  comfort.     Overhead, 


An  Unfinished  Song. 

A  cage  that  hung  amid  the  jasmine  stars 
Trembled  a  little,  and  a  blossom  dropped. 

Then  notes  came  pouring  through  the  wicker  bars, 
Climbed  half  a  rapid  arc  of  song,  and  stopped. 

"  Is  it  a  thrush  ?  "  I  asked.     "A  thrush,"  she  said. 
"  That  was  Will's  tune.    Will  taught  him  that  before 
He  left  the  doorway  settle  for  his  bed, 
Sick  as  you  see,  and  could  n't  teach  him  more. 

"  He  'd  bring  his  Bible  here  o'  nights,  would  Will, 

Following  the  light,  and  whiles  when  it  was  dark 
And  days  were  warm,  he  'd  sit  there  whistling  still, 
Teaching  the  bird.     He  whistled  like  a  lark." 


Jack !  Jack  ! "     A  joyous  flutter  stirred  the  cage, 
Shaking  the  blossoms  down.     The  bird  began  ; 

The  woman  turned  again  to  want  and  wage, 
And  in  the  inner  chamber  sighed  the  man. 

How  clear  the  song  was !     Musing  as  I  heard, 
My  fancies  wandered  from  the  droning  wife 

To  sad  comparison  of  man  and  bird, — 
The  broken  song,  the  uncompleted  life, 
'59 


An  Unfinished  Song. 

That  seemed  a  broken  song ;  and  of  the  two, 

My  thought  a  moment  deemed  the  bird   more 
blest, 

That,  when  the  sun  shone,  sang  the  notes  it  knew, 
Without  desire  or  knowledge  of  the  rest. 

Nay,  happier  man.     For  him  futurity 

Still  hides  a  hope  that  this  his  earthly  praise 

Finds  heavenly  end,  for  surely  will  not  He, 
Solver  of  all,  above  his  Flower  of  Days, 

Teach  him  the  song  that  no  one  living  knows  ? 

Let  the  man  die,  with  that  half-chant  of  his, — 
What  Now  discovers  not  Hereafter  shows, 

And  God  will  surely  teach  him  more  than  this. 

Again  the  Bird.     I  turned,  and  passed  along; 
But  Time  and  Death,  Eternity  and  Change, 
Talked  with  me  ever,  and  the  climbing  song 

Rose  in  my  hearing,  beautiful  and  strange. 
1 60 


THE  CHILD-MUSICIAN. 

HE  had  played  for  his  lordship's  levee, 
He  had  played  for  her  ladyship's  whim, 

Till  the  poor  little  head  was  heavy, 
And  the  poor  little  brain  would  swim. 

And  the  face  grew  peaked  and  eerie, 
And  the  large  eyes  strange  and  bright, 

And  they  said — too  late — "  He  is  weary ! 
He  shall  rest  for,  at  least,  To-night!" 

But  at  dawn,  when  the  birds  were  waking, 
As  they  watched  in  the  silent  room, 

With  the  sound  of  a  strained  cord  breaking, 
A  something  snapped  in  the  gloom. 

T  was  a  string  of  his  violoncello, 

And  they  heard  him  stir  in  his  bed : — 
"  Make  room  for  a  tired  little  fellow, 

Kind  God ! — "  was  the  last  that  he  said. 
161 


THE  CRADLE. 

How  steadfastly  she  'd  worked  at  it ! 

How  lovingly  had  drest 
With  all  her  would-be-mother's  wit 

That  little  rosy  nest ! 

How  longingly  she  'd  hung  on  it  !— 
It  sometimes  seemed,  she  said, 

There  lay  beneath  its  coverlet 
A  little  sleeping  head. 

He  came  at  last,  the  tiny  guest, 
Ere  bleak  December  fled ; 

That  rosy  nest  he  never  prest  ...» 
Her  coffin  was  his  bed. 
162 


BEFORE  SEDAN. 

The  dead  hand  clasped  a  letter." 

—SPECIAL  CORRESPONDENCE. 

HERE,  in  this  leafy  place, 

Quiet  he  lies, 
Cold,  with  his  sightless  face 

Turned  to  the  skies  ; 
'T  is  but  another  dead; 
All  you  can  say  is  said. 

Carry  his  body  hence, — 

Kings  must  have  slaves; 

Kings  climb  to  eminence 
Over  men's  graves : 

So  this  man's  eye  is  dim ; — 

Throw  the  earth  over  him. 

What  was  the  white  you  touched, 
There,  at  his  side  ? 
163 


Before  Sedan. 

Paper  his  hand  had  clutched 

Tight  ere  he  died ; — 
Message  or  wish,  may  be ; — 
Smooth  the  folds  out  and  see. 

Hardly  the  worst  of  us 

Here  could  have  smiled  !- 
Only  the  tremulous 

Words  of  a  child ; — 
Prattle,  that  has  for  stops 
Just  a  few  ruddy  drops. 

Look.     She  is  sad  to  miss, 
Morning  and  night, 

His — her  dead  father's — kiss; 
Tries  to  be  bright, 

Good  to  mamma,  and  sweet 

That  is  all.     "  Marguerite." 

Ah,  if  beside  the  dead 
Slumbered  the  pain ! 

Ah,  if  the  hearts  that  bled 
Slept  with  the  slain ! 

If  the  grief  died ; — But  no  ;— 

Death  will  not  have  it  so. 
164 


THE    FORGOTTEN    GRAVE. 

A  SKETCH  IN  A  CEMETERY. 

OUT  from  the  City's  dust  and  roar, 

You  wandered  through  the  open  door; 

Paused  at  a  plaything  pail  and  spade 

Across  a  tiny  hillock  laid ; 

Then  noted  on  your  dexter  side 

Some  moneyed  mourner's  "love  or  pride"; 

And  so, — beyond  a  hawthorn-tree, 

Showering  its  rain  of  rosy  bloom 

Alike  on  low  and  lofty  tomb, — 

You  came  upon  it — suddenly. 

How  strange !    The  very  grasses'  growth 
Around  it  seemed  forlorn  and  loath ; 
The  very  ivy  seemed  to  turn 

Askance  that  wreathed  the  neighbour  urn. 
165 


The  Forgotten  Grave. 

The  slab  had  sunk ;  the  head  declined. 
And  left  the  rails  a  wreck  behind. 
No  name ;  you  traced  a  "  6," — a  "  7," — 
Part  of  "affliction"  and  of  "  Heaven" ; 
And  then,  in  letters  sharp  and  clear, 
You  read — O  Irony  austere ! — 
"  The/1  lost  to  Sight,  to  Memory  dear? 
166 


MY  LANDLADY. 

A  SMALL  brisk  woman,  capped  with  many  a  bow ; 
"  Yes,"  so  she  says,  "  and  younger,  too,  than  some," 
Who  bids  me,  bustling,  "  God  speed,"  when  I  go, 
And  gives  me,  rustling,  "  Welcome  "  when  I  come. 

"  Ay,  sir,  't  is  cold, — and  freezing  hard, — they  say ; 

I  'd  like  to  give  that  hulking  brute  a  hit — 
Beating  his  horse  in  such  a  shameful  way ! — 
Step  here,  sir,  till  your  fire  's  blazed  up  a  bit." 

A  musky  haunt  of  lavender  and  shells, 

Quaint-figured  Chinese  monsters,  toys,  and  trays — 
A  life's  collection — where  each  object  tells 

Of  fashions  gone  and  half-forgotten  ways : — 

A  glossy  screen,  where  wide-mouth  dragons  ramp ; 

A  vexed  inscription  in  a  sampler-frame ; 
A  shade  of  beads  upon  a  red-capped  lamp ; 

A  child's  mug  graven  with  a  golden  name ; 
,67 


My  Landlady. 

A  pictured  ship,  with  full-blown  canvas  set ; 

A  cord,  with  sea-weed  twisted  to  a  wreath, 
Circling  a  silky  curl  as  black  as  jet, 

With  yellow  writing  faded  underneath. 

Looking,  I  sink  within  the  shrouded  chair, 
And  note  the  objects  slowly,  one  by  one, 

And  light  at  last  upon  a  portrait  there, — 

Wide-collared,  raven -haired.     "  Yes,  't  is  my  son  ! " 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "    "  Ah,  sir,  he  is  dead — my  boy ! 

Nigh  ten  long  years  ago — in  'sixty-three; 
He  's  always  living  in  my  head — my  boy ! 
He  was  left  drowning  in  the  Southern  Sea. 

"  There  were  two  souls  washed  overboard,  they  said, 
And  one  the  waves  brought  back ;  but  he  was  left 
They  saw  him  place  the  life-buoy  o'er  his  head ; 
The  sea  was  running  wildly ; — he  was  left. 

"  He  was  a  strong,  strong  swimmer.     Do  you  know, 

When  the  wind  whistled  yesternight,  I  cried, 
And  prayed  to  God  .  .  .  though  't  was  so  long  ago, 
He  did  not  struggle  much  before  he  died. 
1 68 


My  Landlady. 

"  'T  was    his   third   voyage.      That  's   the   box  he 

brought, — 

Or  would  have  brought — my  poor  deserted  boy ! 

And  these  the  words  the  agents  sent — they  thought 

That  money,  perhaps,  could  make  my  loss  a  joy. 

"  Look,  sir,  I  've  something  here  that  I  prize  more : 

This  is  a  fragment  of  the  poor  lad's  coat, — 
That  other  clutched  him  as  the  wave  went  o'er, 
And  this  stayed  in  his  hand.     That 's  what  they 
wrote. 

"  Well,  well,  't  is  done.     My  story  's  shocking  you ; — 

Grief  is  for  them  that  have  both  time  and  wealth : 

We  can't  mourn  much,  who  have  much  work  to  do  ; 

Your  fire  is  bright.     Thank   God,  I   have  my 

health!" 

169 


BEFORE  THE  CURTAIN. 

Miss  PEACOCK  's  called."    And  who  demurs  ? 

Not  I  who  write,  for  certain ; 
If  praise  be  due,  one  sure  prefers 
That  some  such  face  as  fresh  as  hers 

Should  come  before  the  curtain. 

And  yet,  most  strange  to  say,  I  find 
(E'en  bards  are  sometimes  prosy) 
Her  presence  here  but  brings  to  mind 
That  undistinguished  crowd  behind 
For  whom  life  's  not  so  rosy. 

The  pleased  young  premier  led  her  on, 

But  where  are  all  the  others  ? 
Where  is  that  nimble  servant  John  ? 
And  where  's  the  comic  Uncle  gone  ? 

And  where  that  best  of  Mothers  ? 

Where  is  "Sir  Lumley  Leycester,  Bart."? 

And  where  the  crafty  Cousin  ? — 
170 


Before  the  Curtain. 

That  man  may  have  a  kindly  heart, 
And  yet  each  night  ('t  is  in  the  part) 
Must  poison  half-a-dozen ! 

Where  is  the  cool  Detective, — he 

Should  surely  be  applauded  ? 
The  Lawyer,  who  refused  the  fee  ? 
The  Wedding  Guests  (in  number  three)  ?- 

Why  are  they  all  defrauded  ? 

The  men  who  worked  the  cataract  ? 

The  plush- clad  carpet  lifters  ? — 
Where  is  the  countless  host,  in  fact, 
Whose  cue  is  not  to  speak,  but  act, — 

The  "supers"  and  the  shifters? 

Think  what  a  crowd  whom  none  recall, 

Unsung, — unpraised, — unpitied ; — 
Women  for  whom  no  bouquets  fall, 
And  men  whose  names  no  galleries  bawl,- 
The  Great  un-Benefit-ed ! 

Ah,  Reader,  ere  you  turn  the  page, 

I  leave  you  this  for  Moral : — 
Remember  those  who  tread  Life's  stage 
With  weary  feet  and  scantest  wage, 
And  ne'er  a  leaf  for  laurel ! 
171 


A  NIGHTINGALE  IN  KENSINGTON 
GARDENS. 

THEY  paused, — the  cripple  in  the  chair, 
More  bent  with  pain  than  age ; 

The  mother  with  her  lines  of  care ; 
The  many-buttoned  page ; 

The  noisy,  red-cheeked  nursery-maid, 
With  straggling  train  of  three ; 

The  Frenchman  with  his  frogs  and  braid  ;— 
All,  curious,  paused  to  see, 

If  possible,  the  small,  dusk  bird 
That  from  the  almond  bough, 
Had  poured  the  joyous  chant  they  heard, 

So  suddenly,  but  now. 
172 


A  Nightingale  in  Kensington  Garden. 

And  one  poor  POET  stopped  and  thought — 

How  many  a  lonely  lay 
That  bird  had  sung  ere  fortune  brought 

It  near  the  common  way, 

Where  the  crowd  hears  the  note.     And  then,- 

What  birds  must  sing  the  song, 
To  whom  that  hour  of  listening  men 

Could  ne'er  in  life  belong ! 

But  "Art  for  Art!"  the  Poet  said, 
"T  is  still  the  Nightingale, 
That  sings  where  no  men's  feet  will  tread, 
And  praise  and  audience  fail." 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  FOUR  SEASONS 

WHEN  Spring  comes  laughing 

By  vale  and  hill, 
By  wind-flower  walking 

And  daffodil, — 
Sing  stars  of  morning, 

Sing  morning  skies, 
Sing  blue  of  speedwell, 

And  my  Love's  eyes. 

When  comes  the  Summer, 
Full-leaved  and  strong, 

And  gay  birds  gossip 
The  orchard  long, — 

Sing  hid,  sweet  honey 
That  no  bee  sips ; 

Sing  red,  red  roses, 

And  my  Love's  lips. 
177 


A  Song  of  tfie  Four  Seasons. 

When  Autumn  scatters 

The  leaves  again, 
And  piled  sheaves  bury 

The  broad-wheeled  wain,— 
Sing  flutes  of  harvest 

Where  men  rejoice; 
Sing  rounds  of  reapers, 

And  my  Love's  voice. 

But  when  comes  Winter 

With  hail  and  storm, 
And  red  fire  roaring 

And  ingle  warm, — 
Sing  first  sad  going 

Of  friends  that  part ; 
Then  sing  glad  meeting 

And  my  Love's  heart. 
178 


THE    PARADOX    OF    TIME. 

(A  VARIATION  ON  RONSARD.) 

14  Le  temps  fen  va,  U  temps  s^en  va,  ma  dame! 
Las  !  k  temps  non:  mats  NOUS  nous  en  allons  /" 

TIME  goes,  you  say  ?     Ah  no ! 
Alas,  Time  stays,  we  go ; 

Or  else,  were  this  not  so, 
What  need  to  chain  the  hours, 
For  Youth  were  always  ours  ? 

Time  goes,  you  say  ? — ah  no  I 

Ours  is  the  eyes'  deceit 
Of  men  whose  flying  feet 

Lead  through  some  landscape  low ; 
We  pass,  and  think  we  see 
The  earth's  fixed  surface  flee : — 

Alas,  Time  stays, — we  go ! 
179 


The  Paradox  of  Time. 

Once  in  the  days  of  old, 
Your  locks  were  curling  gold, 

And  mine  had  shamed  the  crow 
Now,  in  the  self-same  stage, 
We  've  reached  the  silver  age ; 

Time  goes,  you  say  ? — ah  no ! 

Once,  when  my  voice  was  strong, 
I  filled  the  woods  with  song 

To  praise  your  "rose"  and  "snow1 
My  bird,  that  sang,  is  dead ; 
Where  are  your  roses  fled  ? 

Alas,  Time  stays, — we  go  I 

See,  in  what  traversed  ways, 
What  backward  Fate  delays 

The  hopes  we  used  to  know ; 
Where  are  our  old  desires  ? — 
Ah,  where  those  vanished  fires  ? 

Time  goes,  you  say  ? — ah  no ! 

How  far,  how  far,  O  Sweet, 
The  past  behind  our  feet 

Lies  in  the  even-glow ! 
Now,  on  the  forward  way, 
Let  us  fold  our  hands  and  pray; 

Alas,  Time  stays, — we  go  1 
180 


TO  A  GREEK  GIRL. 
(AFTER  A  WEEK  OF  LANDOR'S  "HELLENICS.") 

WITH  breath  of  thyme  and  bees  that  hum, 
Across  the  years  you  seem  to  come, — 
Across  the  years  with  nymph-like  head, 
And  wind-blown  brows  unfilleted ; 
A  girlish  shape  that  slips  the  bud 

In  lines  of  unspoiled  symmetry ; 
A  girlish  shape  that  stirs  the  blood 

With  pulse  of  Spring,  Autonoe ! 

Where'er  you  pass, — where'er  you  go, 
I  hear  the  pebbly  rillet  flow ; 
Where'er  you  go, — where'er  you  pass, 
There  comes  a  gladness  on  the  grass ; 
You  bring  blithe  airs  where'er  you  tread, — 
Blithe  airs  that  blow  from  down  and  sea ; 
You  wake  in  me  a  Pan  not  dead, — 

Not  wholly  dead ! — Autonoe  1 
181 


To  a  Greek  Girl. 

How  sweet  with  you  on  some  green  sod 
To  wreathe  the  rustic  garden-god ; 
How  sweet  beneath  the  chestnut's  shade 
With  you  to  weave  a  basket -braid ; 
To  watch  across  the  stricken  chords 

Your  rosy-twinkling  fingers  flee; 
Or  woo  you  in  soft  woodland  words, 

With  woodland  pipe,  Autonoe ! 

In  vain, — in  vain !     The  years  divide ; 
Where  Thamis  rolls  a  murky  tide, 
I  sit  and  fill  my  painful  reams, 
And  see  you  only  in  my  dreams ; — 
A  vision,  like  Alcestis,  brought 

From  under-lands  of  Memory, — 
A  dream  of  Form  in  days  of  Thought, — 

A  dream, — a  dream,  Autonoe  1 
182 


THE  DEATH  OF  PROCRIS. 

A  VERSION  SUGGESTED    BY   THE    SO-NAMED    PICTURE  OF 
PIERO  DI  COSIMO,  IN  THE  NATIONAL  GALLERY. 

PROCRIS,  the  nymph,  had  wedded  Cephalus ; — 
He,  till  the  spring  had  warmed  to  slow-winged  days 
Heavy  with  June,  untired  and  amorous, 
Named  her  his  love;  but  now,  in  unknown  ways, 
His  heart  was  gone;  and  evermore  his  gaze 
Turned  from  her  own,  and  ever  farther  ranged 
His  woodland  war ;  while  she,  in  dull  amaze, 
Beholding  with  the  hours  her  husband  changed, 
Sighed  for  his  lost  caress,  by  some  hard  god  estranged 

So,  on  a  day,  she  rose  and  found  him  not. 
Alone,  with  wet,  sad  eye,  she  watched  the  shade 
Brighten  below  a  soft-rayed  sun  that  shot 
Arrows  of  light  through  all  the  deep-leaved  glade ; 
Then,  with  weak  hands,  she  knotted  up  the  braid 
183 


The  Death  of  Procris. 

Of  her  brown  hair,  and  o'er  her  shoulders  cast 
Her  crimson  weed;  with  faltering  fingers  made 
Her  golden  girdle's  clasp  to  join,  and  past 
Down  to  the  trackless  wood,  full  pale  and  overcast. 

And  all  day  long  her  slight  spear  devious  flew, 
And  harmless  swerved  her  arrows  from  their  aim, 
For  ever,  as  the  ivory  bow  she  drew, 
Before  her  ran  the  still  unwounded  game. 
Then,  at  the  last,  a  hunter's  cry  there  came, 
And,  lo,  a  hart  that  panted  with  the  chase, 
Thereat  her  cheek  was  lightened  as  with  flame, 
And  swift  she  gat  her  to  a  leafy  place, 
Thinking,  "  I  yet  may  chance  unseen  to  see  his  face. ' 

Leaping  he  went,  this  hunter  Cephalus, 
Bent  in  his  hand  his  cornel  bow  he  bare, 
Supple  he  was,  round-limbed  and  vigorous, 
Fleet  as  his  dogs,  a  lean  Laconian  pair. 
He,  when  he  spied  the  brown  of  Procris'  hair 
Move  in  the  covert,  deeming  that  apart 
Some  fawn  lay  hidden,  loosed  an  arrow  there ; 
Nor  cared  to  turn  and  seek  the  speeded  dart, 
Bounding  above  the  fern,  fast  following  up  the  hart. 

But  Procris  lay  among  the  white  wind-flowers, 
Shot  in  the  throat.     From  out  the  little  wound 
184 


The  Death  of  Procris. 

The  slow  blood  drained,  as  drops  in  autumn  showers 
Drip  from  the  leaves  upon  the  sodden  ground. 
None  saw  her  die  but  Lelaps,  the  swift  hound, 
That  watched  her  dumbly  with  a  wistful  fear, 
Till,  at  the  dawn,  the  horned  wood-men  found 
And  bore  her  gently  on  a  sylvan  bier, 
To  lie  beside  the  sea, — with  many  an  uncouth  tear. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  SWINE  TO  CIRCE. 

HUDDLING  they  came,  with  shag  sides  caked  ol 

mire, — 
With    hoofs    fresh    sullied    from    the  troughs   o'er- 

turned, — 

With  wrinkling  snouts, — yet  eyes  in  which  desire 
Of  some  strange  thing  unutterably  burned, 
Unquenchable ;  and  still  where'er  She  turned 
They  rose  about  her,  striving  each  o'er  each, 
With  restless,  fierce  importuning  that  yearned 
Through   those  brute  masks  some  piteous  tale  to 

teach, 
Yet  lacked  the  words  thereto,  denied  the  power  of 

speech. 

For  these — Eurylochus  alone  escaping — 
In  truth,  that  small  exploring  band  had  been, 
Whom  wise  Odysseus,  dim  precaution  shaping, 
Ever  at  heart,  of  peril  unforeseen, 

Had  sent  inland; — whom  then  the  islet-Queen, — 
1 86 


Ike  Prayer  of  the  Swine  to  Circe. 

The  fair  disastrous  daughter  of  the  Sun, — 
Had  turned  to  likeness  of  the  beast  unclean, 
With  evil  wand  transforming  one  by  one 
To  shapes  of  loathly  swine,  imbruted  and  undone. 

But  "  the  men's  minds  remained,"  and  these  for  eve 
Made  hungry  suppliance  through  the  fire -red  eyes ; 
Still  searching  aye,  with  impotent  endeavour, 
To  find,  if  yet,  in  any  look,  there  lies 
A  saving  hope,  or  if  they  might  surprise 
In  that  cold  face  soft  pity's  spark  concealed, 
Which  she,  still  scorning,  evermore  denies ; 
Nor  was  there  in  her  any  ruth  revealed 
To  whom  with  such  mute  speech  and  dumb  words  they 
appealed. 

What  hope  is  ours — what  hope  !     To  find  no  mercy 
After  much  war,  and  many  travails  done  ? — 
Ah,  kinder  far  than  thy  fell  philtres,  Circe, 
The  ravening  Cyclops  and  the  Lcestrigon  ! 
And  0,  thrice  cursed  be  Laertes"  son, 
By  whom,  at  last,  we  watch  the  days  decline 
With  no  fair  ending  of  the  quest  begun, 
Condemned  in  styes  to  weary  and  to  pine 
And  with  men's  hearts  to  beat  through  this  foul  front  oj 
swine  ! 

187 


The  Prayer  of  tJte  Swine  to  Circe. 

For  us  not  now, — -for  us,  alas  /  no  more 
The  old  green  glamour  of  the  glancing  sea  ; 
For  us  not  now  tJie  laughter  of  the  oar, — 
Ihc  strong-ribbed  keel  wherein  our  comrades  bt ; 
Not  now,  at  even,  any  more  shall  we, 
By  low-browed  banks  and  reedy  river  places , 
Watch  the  beast  hurry  and  tJie  wild  fowl  flee  ; 
Or  steering  shoreward,  in  the  upland  spaces 
Have  sight  of  curling  smoke  and  fair-skinned  foreign 
faces. 

Alas  for  us  ! — -for  whom  the  columned  houses 
We  left  afore-time,  cheerless  must  abide  ; 
Cheerless  the  hearth  where  now  no  guest  carouses,—* 
No  minstrel  raises  song  at  eventide  ; 
And  O,  more  cheerless  than  aught  else  beside, 
The  wistful  hearts  with  heavy  longing  full  j — 
TJie  wife  that  watched  us  on  the  waning  tide, — 
The  sire  wJwse  eyes  with  weariness  are  dull, — 
The  mother  whose  slow  tears  fall  on  the  carded  wool. 

If  swine  we  be, — if  we  indeed  be  swine, 
Daughter  of  Per s^,  make  us  swine  indeed, 
Well-pleased  on  litter-straw  to  lie  supine, — 
Well-pleased  on  mast  and  acorn-shales  to  feed, 
Stirred  by  all  instincts  of  the  bestial  breed; 
188 


The  Prayer  of  the  Swine  to  Circe. 

But  O  Unmerciful !     O  Pitiless  ! 
Leave  us  not  thus  with  sick  men's  hearts  to  bleed ! — 
To  waste  long  days  in  yearning,  dumb  distress 
And  memory  of  things  gone,  and  utter  hopelessness  ! 

Leave  us  at  least,  if  not  the  things  we  were. 
At  least  consentient  to  the  thing  we  be  ; 
Not  hapless  doomed  to  loathe  the  forms  we  bear, 
And  senseful  roll  in  senseless  savagery  ; 
For  surely  cursed  abwe  all  cursed  are  we, 
And  surely  this  the  bitterest  of  ill ; — 
To  feel  the  old  aspirings  fair  and  free, 
Become  blind  motions  of  a  powerless  will 
Through  swine-like  frames  dispersed  to  swine-like  issue* 
still. 

But  make  us  men  again,  for  that  thou  may'st ! 
Yea,  make  us  men,  Enchantress,  and  restore 
These  grovelling  shapes,  degraded  and  debased, 
To  fair  embodiments  of  men  once  more  ; — 
Yea,  by  all  men  that  ever  woman  bore  /— 
Yea,  e'en  by  him  hereafter  born  in  pain, 
Shall  draw  sustainment  from  thy  bosom1  s  core, 
O'er  whom  thy  face  yet  kindly  shall  remain, 

And  find  its  like  therein, — make  thou  us  men  again  .' 
189 


TJie  Prayer  of  the  Swine  to  Circe. 

Make  thou  us  men  again, — if  men  but  groping 
That  dark  Hereafter  -which  th*  Olympians  keep  ; 
Make  thou  us  men  again, — if  men  but  hoping 
Behind  death's  doors  security  of  sleep  ; — 
For  yet  to  laugh  is  somewhat,  and  to  weep  ; — 
To  feel  delight  of  living,  and  to  plough 
The  salt-blown  acres  of  the  shoreless  deep  ; — 
Better, — -yea  better  far  all  these  than  bow 
Foul  faces  to  foul  earth,  and  yearn — as  we  do  now  / 

So  they  in  speech  unsyllabled.     But  She, 
The  fair-tressed  Goddess,  born  to  be  their  bane, 
Uplifting  straight  her  wand  of  ivory, 
Compelled  them  groaning  to  the  styes  again  ; 
Where  they  in  hopeless  bitterness  were  fain 
To  rend  the  oaken  woodwork  as  before, 
And  tear  the  troughs  in  impotence  of  pain,— 
Not  knowing,  they, -that  even  at  the  door 

Divine  Odysseus  stood, — as  Hermes  told  of  yore. 
190 


A  CASE  OF  CAMEOS. 
(DIXAINS.) 

AGATE. 
(TJie  Power  of  Love.) 

FIRST,  in  an  Agate-stone,  a  Centaur  strong, 
With  square  man-breasts  and  hide  of  dapple  dun, 
His  brown  arms  bound  behind  him  with  a  thong, 
On  strained  croup  strove  to  free  himself  from  one  — 
A  bolder  rider  than  Bellerophon. 
For,  on  his  back,  by  some  strange  power  of  art, 
There  sat  a  laughing  Boy  with  bow  and  dart, 
Who  drove  him  where  he  would,  and  driving  him, 
With  that  barbed  toy  would  make  him  rear  and  start 

To  this  was  writ  "  World- victor "  on  the  rim. 
191 


A  Case  of  Cameos. 

CHALCEDONY. 

(The  TJiefts  of  Mercury.) 
THE  next  in  legend  bade  "  Beware  of  show! " 
T  was  graven  this  on  pale  Chalcedony. 
Here  great  Apollo,  with  unbended  bow, 
His  quiver  hard  by  on  a  laurel  tree, 
For  some  new  theft  was  rating  Mercury. 
Who  stood  with  downcast  eyes,  and  feigned  distress, 
As  daring  not,  for  utter  guiltiness, 
To  meet  that  angry  voice  and  aspect  joined. 
His  very  heel-wings  drooped;  but  yet,  not  less, 
His  backward  hand  the  Sun-God's  shafts  purloined. 

SARDONYX. 

(TJif  Song  of  Orpheus.) 

THEN,  on  a  Sardonyx,  the  man  of  Thrace, 
The  voice  supreme  that  through  Hell's  portals  stole> 
With  carved  white  lyre  and  glorious  song-lit  face, 
(Too  soon,  alas!  on  Hebrus*  wave  to  roll!) 
Played  to  the  beasts,  from  a  great  elm-tree  bole. 
And  lo !  with  half-shut  eyes  the  leopard  spread 
His  lissome  length ;  and  deer  with  gentle  tread 
Came  through  the  trees ;  and,  from  a  nearer  spring, 
The  prick-eared  rabbit  paused ;  while  overhead 

The  stock-dove  drifted  downward,  fluttering. 
192 


A  Case  of  Cameos. 

AMETHYST. 

(The  Crowning  of  Silenus.) 
NEXT  came  an  Amethyst, — the  grape  in  hue. 
On  a  mock  throne,  by  fresh  excess  disgraced, 
With  heavy  head,  and  thyrsus  held  askew, 
The  Youths,  in  scorn,  had  dull  Silenus  placed, 
And  o'er  him  "King  of  Topers"  they  had  traced. 
Yet  but  a  King  of  Sleep  he  seemed  at  best, 
With  wine-bag  cheeks  that  bulged  upon  his  breast, 
And  vat-like  paunch  distent  from  his  carouse. 
Meanwhile,  his  ass,  by  no  respect  represt, 
Munched  at  the  wreath  upon  her  Master's  brows. 

BERYL. 

(The  Sirens.) 

LASTLY,  with  "Pleasure"  was  a  Beryl  graven, 
Clear-hued, — divine.     Thereon  the  Sirens  sung. 
What  time,  beneath,  by  rough  rock-bases  caven, 
And  jaw-like  rifts  where  many  a  green  bone  clung, 
The  strong  flood-tide,  in-rushing,  coiled  and  swung. 
Then, — in  the  offing, — on  the  lift  o'  the  sea, 
A  tall  ship  drawing  shoreward,  helplessly. 
For,  from  the  prow,  e'en  now  the  rowers  leap 
Headlong,  nor  seek  from  that  sweet  fate  to  flee  .  .  . 
Ah  me,  those  Women-witches  of  the  Deep ! 
'93 


THE  SICK  MAN  AND  THE  BIRDS. 


SPRING,  —  art  thou  come,  O  Spring! 

I  am  too  sick  for  words  ; 
How  hast  thou  heart  to  sing, 

O  Spring,  with  all  thy  birds  ? 

MERULA. 

I  sing  for  joy  to  see  again 
The  merry  leaves  along  the  lane, 

The  little  bud  grown  ripe  ; 
And  look,  my  love  upon  the  bough  ! 
Hark,  how  she  calleth  to  me  now,  — 
"Pipe!  pipe!" 

./EGROTUS. 
Ah  !  weary  is  the  sun  : 

Love  is  an  idle  thing  ; 
But,  Bird,  thou  restless  one, 

What  ails  thee,  wandering  ? 
194 


The  Sick  Man  and  the  Birds. 

HIRUNDO. 

By  shore  and  sea  I  come  and  go 
To  seek  I  know  not  what ;  and  lo  f 

On  no  man's  eaves  I  sit 
But  voices  bid  me  rise  once  more, 
To  flit  again  by  sea  and  shore, — 
Flit!     Flit  I 

^EGROTUS. 
This  is  Earth's  bitter  cup : — 

Only  to  seek,  not  know. 
But  Thou,  that  strivest  up, 

Why  dost  thou  carol  so  ? 

ALAUDA. 

A  secret  Spirit  gifteth  me 
With  song,  and  wind  that  lifteth  me,— 

A  Spirit  for  whose  sake, 
Striving  amain  to  reach  the  sky, 
Still  to  the  old  dark  earth  I  cry, — 

"Wake!  wake!" 

./EGROTUS. 
My  hope  hath  lost  its  wing. 

Thou,  that  to  Night  dost  call, 
How  hast  thou  heart  to  sing 
Thy  tears  made  musical  ? 
195 


The  Sick  Man  and  ttie  Birds. 

PHILOMELA. 

Alas  for  me  !  a  dry  desire 
Is  all  my  song,  —  a  waste  of  fire 

That  will  not  fade  nor  fail  ; 
To  me,  dim  shapes  of  ancient  crime 
Moan  through  the  windy  ways  of  time, 
"Wail!  wail!" 


This  is  the  sick  man's  song,  — 
Mournful,  in  sooth,  and  fit  ; 

Unrest  that  cries  "  How  long  ! 
And  the  Night  answers  it. 
196 


A  FLOWER  SONG  OF  ANGIOLA. 

DOWN  where  the  garden  grows, 

Gay  as  a  banner, 
Spake  to  her  mate  the  Rose 

After  this  manner  : — 
u  We  are  the  first  of  flowers, 

Plain-land  or  hilly, 
All  reds  and  whites  are  ours, 

Are  they  not,  Lily  ?  " 

^  Then  to  the  flowers  I  spake,- - 
"  Watch  ye  my  Lady 
Gone  to  the  leafy  brake, 

Silent  and  shady ; 
When  I  am  near  to  her, 

Lily,  she  knows ; 
How  I  am  dear  to  her, 

Look  to  it,  Rose." 
197 


A  Flowtr  Song  of  Angiold. 

Straightway  the  Blue-bell  stooped, 

Paler  for  pride, 
Down  where  the  Violet  drooped, 

Shy,  at  her  side : — 
"  Sweetheart,  save  me  and  you, 

Where  has  the  summer  kist 
Flowers  of  as  fair  a  hue, — 

Turkis  or  Amethyst?" 

Therewith  I  laughed  aloud, 

Spake  on  this  wise, 
**  O  little  flowers  so  proud, 

Have  ye  seen  eyes 
Change  through  the  blue  ir  idem, — 

Change  till  the  mere 
Loving  that  grew  in  them 

Turned  to  a  tear  ? 

"  Flowers,  ye  are  bright  of  hue, 

Delicate,  sweet ; 
Flowers,  and  the  sight  of  you 

Lightens  men's  feet ; 
Yea ;  but  her  worth  to  me, 

Flowerets,  even, 
Sweetening  the  earth  to  me, 
Sweeteneth  heaven. 
198 


A  Flower  Song  of  Angiola. 

"  This,  then,  O  Flowers,  I  sing ; 

God,  when  He  made  ye 
Made  yet  a  fairer  thing 

Making  my  Lady; — 
Fashioned  her  tenderly, 

Giving  all  weal  to  her;— 
Girdle  ye  slenderly, 

Go  to  her,  kneel  to  her,— 

"  Saying,  « He  sendeth  us, 

He  the  most  dutiful, 
Meetly  he  endeth  us, 

Maiden  most  beautiful  1 
Let  us  get  rest  of  you, 

Sweet,  in  your  breast ;— - 
Die,  being  prest  of  you, 
Die,  being  blest"' 
199 


A  SONG  OF  ANGIOLA  IN  HEAVEN 

FLOWERS, — that  have  died  upon  my  Sweet 
Lulled  by  the  rhythmic  dancing  beat 

Of  her  young  bosom  under  you, — 
Now  will  I  show  you  such  a  thing 
As  never,  through  thick  buds  of  Spring, 

Betwixt  the  daylight  and  the  dew, 
The  Bird  whose  being  no  man  knows — 

The  voice  that  waketh  all  night  through, 
Tells  to  the  Rose. 

For  lo, — a  garden-place  I  found, 

Well  filled  of  leaves,  and  stilled  of  sound, 

Well  flowered,  with  red  fruit  marvellous ; 
And  'twixt  the  shining  trunks  would  flit 
Tall  knights  and  silken  maids,  or  sit 

With  faces  bent  and  amorous  j — 
There,  in  the  heart  thereof,  and  crowned 

With  woodbine  and  amaracus, 
My  Love  I  found. 
200 


A  Song  of  Angiola  in  Heaven. 

Alone  she  walked, — ah,  well  I  wis, 
My  heart  leapt  up  for  joy  of  this  ! — 

Then  when  I  called  to  her  her  name,—- 
The  name,  that  like  a  pleasant  thing 
Men's  lips  remember,  murmuring, 

At  once  across  the  sward  she  came, — 
Full  fain  she  seemed,  my  own  dear  maid, 

And  asked  ever  as  she  came, 

"  Where  hast  thou  stayed  ?  " 

"  Where  hast  thou  stayed  ?  " — she  asked  as  though 
The  long  years  were  an  hour  ago ; 
But  I  spake  not,  nor  answered, 
For,  looking  in  her  eyes,  I  saw, 
A  light  not  lit  of  mortal  law  ; 

And  in  her  clear  cheek's  changeless  red, 
And  sweet,  unshaken  speaking  found 
That  in  this  place  the  Hours  were  dead, 
And  Time  was  bound. 

"  This  is  well  done," — she  said, — "  in  thee, 
O  Love,  that  thou  art  come  to  me, 

To  this  green  garden  glorious; 
Now  truly  shall  our  life  be  sped 
In  joyance  and  all  goodlihed, 
For  here  all  things  are  fair  to  us, 
201 


A  Song  of  Angiola  in  Heaven. 

And  none  with  burden  is  oppressed, 
And  none  is  poor  or  piteous, — 
For  here  is  Rest. 

"  No  formless  Future  blurs  the  sky ; 
Men  mourn  not  here,  with  dull  dead  eye, 

By  shrouded  shapes  of  Yesterday; 
Betwixt  the  Coming  and  the  Past 
The  flawless  life  hangs  fixen  fast 

In  one  unwearying  To-Day, 
That  darkens  not ;  for  Sin  is  shriven, 
Death  from  the  doors  is  thrust  away, 
And  here  is  Heaven." 

At  "  Heaven  "  she  ceased ; — and  lifted  up 
Her  fair  head  like  a  flower-cup, 

With  rounded  mouth,  and  eyes  aglow ; 
Then  set  I  lips  to  hers,  and  felt, — 
Ah,  God, — the  hard  pain  fade  and  melt, 

And  past  things  change  to  painted  show ; 
The  song  of  quiring  birds  outbroke ; 

The  lit  leaves  laughed, — sky  shook,  and  lo, 
I  swooned, — and  woke. 

And  now,  O  Flowers, 

— Ye  that  indeed  are  dead, — 
202 


A  Song  of  Angiola  in  Heaven. 

Now  for  all  waiting  hours, 

Well  am  I  comforted ; 
For  of  a  surety,  now,  I  see, 

That,  without  dim  distress 

Of  tears,  or  weariness, 
My  Lady,  verily,  awaiteth  me; 
So  that  until  with  Her  I  be, 

For  my  dear  Lady's  sake 

I  am  right  fain  to  make 
Out  from  my  pain  a  pillow,  and  to  take 
Grief  for  a  golden  garment  unto  me ; 

Knowing  that  I,  at  last,  shall  stand 

In  that  green  garden-land, 
And,  in  the  holding  of  my  dear  Love's  hand 

Forget  the  grieving  and  the  misery. 
203 


THE  DYING  OF  TANNEGUY  DU  BOIS. 

"  En  los  nidas  antano  no  hay  pajaros  hogano" 

— LAST  WORDS  OF  DON  QUIXOTE. 

YEA,  I  am  passed  away,  I  think,  from  this ; 

Nor  helps  me  herb,  nor  any  leechcraft  here, 
But  lift  me  hither  the  sweet  cross  to  kiss, 

And  witness  ye,  I  go  without  a  fear. 
Yea,  I  am  sped,  and  never  more  shall  see, 

As  once  I  dreamed,  the  show  of  shield  and  crest, 
Gone  southward  to  the  fighting  by  the  sea; — 

Thtrt  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest! 

Yea,  with  me  now  all  dreams  are  done,  I  ween, 
Grown  faint  and  unremembered ;  voices  call 

High  up,  like  misty  warders  dimly  seen 

Moving  at  morn  on  some  Burgundian  wall ; 

And  all  things  swim — as  when  the  charger  stands 
Quivering  between  the  knees,  and  East  and  West 

Are  filled  with  flash  of  scarves  and  waving  hands  ;— 

There  is  tw  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest/ 
204 


The  Dying  of  Tanneguy  du  Bois. 

[ s  she  a  dream  I  left  in  Aquitaine  ? — 

My  wife  Giselle, — who  never  spoke  a  word, 
Although  I  knew  her  mouth  was  drawn  with  pain, 

Her  eyelids  hung  with  tears;  and  though  I  heard 
The  strong  sob  shake  her  throat,  and  saw  the  cord 

Her  necklace  made  about  it ; — she  that  prest 
To  watch  me  trotting  till  I  reached  the  ford ; — 

There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest ! 

Ah !  I  had  hoped,  God  wot, — had  longed  that  she 

Should  watch  me  from  the  little-lit  tourelle, 
Me,  coming  riding  by  the  windy  lea — 

Me,  coming  back  again  to  her,  Giselle; 
Yea,  I  had  hoped  once  more  to  hear  him  call, 

The  curly-pate,  who,  rushen  lance  in  rest, 
Stormed  at  the  lilies  by  the  orchard  wall ; — 

There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest ! 

But  how,  my  Masters,  ye  are  wrapt  in  gloom ! 

This  Death  will  come,  and  whom  he  loves  he  cleaves 
Sheer  through  the  steel  and  leather;  hating  whom 

He  smites  in  shameful  wise  behind  the  greaves. 
T  is  a  fair  time  with  Dennis  and  the  Saints, 

And  weary  work  to  age,  and  want  for  rest, 
When  harness  groweth  heavy,  and  one  faints, 

With  no  bird  left  in  any  last  year's  nest! 
205 


The  Dying  of  Tanneguy  du  Boh. 

Give  ye  good  hap,  then,  all.     For  me,  I  lie 

Broken  in  Christ's  sweet  hand,  with  whom  shall  rest 

To  keep  me  living,  now  that  I  must  die ; — 
There  is  no  bird  in  any  last  year's  nest  I 
206 


THE  MOSQUE  OF  THE  CALIPH. 

UNTO  Seyd  the  vizier  spake  the  Caliph  Abdallah  : — 
"  Now  hearken  and  hear,  I  am  weary,  by  Allah ! 
I  am  faint  with  the  mere  over-running  of  leisure ; 
I  will  rouse  me  and  rear  up  a  palace  to  Pleasure ! " 

To  Abdallah  the  Caliph  spake  Seyd  the  vizier : — 
"  All  faces  grow  pale  if  my  Lord  draweth  near ; 
And  the  breath  of  his  mouth  not  a  mortal  shall  scoff 

it;— 
They  must  bend  and  obey,  by  the  beard  of  the 

Prophet!" 

Then  the  Caliph  that  heard,  with  becoming  sedate- 
ness, 

Drew  his  hand  down  his  beard  as  he  thought  of  his 
greatness ; 

Drained  out  the  last  bead  of  the  wine  in  the  chalice : 

"  I  have  spoken,  O  Seyd ;  I  will  build  it,  my  palace ! 
207 


The  Mosque  of  the  Caliph. 

"  As  a  drop  from  the  wine  where  the  wine-cup  hath 

spilled  it, 
As  a  gem  from  the  mine, — O  my  Seyd,  I  will  build 

it; 

Without  price,  without  flaw,  it  shall  stand  for  a  token 
That  the  word   is   a  law  which   the   Caliph  hath 

spoken ! " 

Yet  again  to  the  Caliph  bent  Seyd  the  vizier : 
M  Who  shall  reason  or  rail  if  my  Lord  speaketh  clear  ? 
Who  shall  strive  with  his  might  ?     Let  my  Lord  live 

for  ever ! 
He  shall  choose  him  a  site  by  the  side  of  the  river." 

Then  the  Caliph  sent  forth  unto  Kiir,  unto  Yemen, — 
To  the  South,  to  the  North, — for  the  skilfullest  free- 
men; 

And  soon,  in  a  close,  where  the  river  breeze  fanned  it, 
The  basement  uprose,  as  the  Caliph  had  planned  it. 

Now  the  courses  were   laid  and   the   corner-piece 

fitted; 
And  the  butments  and  set-stones  were  shapen  and 

knitted, 

When  lo !  on  a  sudden  the  Caliph  heard  frowning, 
That  the  river  had  swelled,  and  the  workmen  were 

drowning. 

208 


The  Mosque  of  the  Caliph. 

Then  the  Caliph  was  stirred  and  he  flushed  in  his  ire 

as 

He  sent  forth  his  word  from  Teheran  to  Shiraz ; 
And  the  workmen  came  new,  and  the  palace,  built 

faster, 
From  the  bases  up-grew  unto  arch  and  pilaster. 

And  the  groinings  were  traced,  and  the  arch-heads 

were  chasen, 

When  lo !  in  hot  haste  there  came  flying  a  mason, 
For  a  cupola  fallen  had  whelmed  half  the  workmen  ; 
And  Hamet  the  chief  had  been  slain  by  the  Turc'- 

men. 

Then  the  Caliph's  beard  curled,  and  he  foamed  in  his 

rage  as 
Once  more  his  scouts  whirled  from  the  Tell  to  the 

Hedjaz; 
"  Is  my  word  not  my  word  ? "  cried  the  Caliph  Ab- 

dallah; 
"  I  will  build  it  up  yet ...  by  the  aiding  of  Allah  /" 

Though  he  spoke  in  his  haste  like  King  David  before 

him, 
Yet  he  felt  as  he  spoke  that  a  something  stole  o'ei 

him; 

209 


Tfie  Mosque  of  tlie  Caliph. 

And  his  soul  grew  as  glass,  and  his  anger  passed  from 

it 
As  the  vapours  that  pass  from  the  Pool  of  Mahomet 

And  the  doom  seemed  to  hang  on  the  palace  no 
longer, 

Like  a  fountain  it  sprang  when  the  sources  feed 
stronger; 

Shaft,  turret  and  spire  leaped  upward,  diminished 

Like  the  flames  of  a  fire, — till  the  palace  was  fin- 
ished 1 

Without  price,  without  flaw.    And  it  lay  on  the  azure 

Like  a  diadem  dropped  from  an  emperor's  treasure ; 

And  the  dome  of  pearl  white  and  the  pinnacles 
fleckless, 

Flashed  back  to  the  light,  like  the  gems  in  a  neck- 
lace. 

So  the  Caliph  looked  forth  on  the  turret-tops  gilded ; 
And  he  said  in  his  pride,  "  Is  my  palace  not  builded  ? 
Who  is  more  great  than  I  that  his  word  can  avail  if 
My  will  is  my  will," — said  Abdallah  the  Caliph. 

But  lo  1  with  the  light  he  repented  his  scorning, 
For  an  earthquake  had  shattered  the  whole  ere  the 
morning; 

210 


The  Mosque  of  ttte  Caliph. 

Of  the  pearl-coloured  dome  there  was  left  but  a 

ruin, — 
But  an  arch  as  a  home  for  the  ring-dove  to  coo  in. 

Shaft,  turret  and  spire — all  were  tumbled  and  crum- 
bled; 

And  the  soul  of  the  Caliph  within  him  was  humbled ; 

And  he  bowed  in  the  dust : — "  There  is  none  great 
but  Allah ! 

I  will  build  Him  a  Mosque," — said  the  Caliph  Ab- 
dallah. 

And  the  Caliph  has  gone  to  his  fathers  for  ever, 
But  the  Mosque  that  he  builded  shines  still  by  the 

river ; 

And  the  pilgrims  up-stream  to  this  day  slacken  sail  if 
They  catch  the  first  gleam  of  the  "  Mosque  of  the 

Calirh." 

211 


IN  THE  BELFRY. 

WRITTEN  UNDER  RETHEL's  "DEATH,  THE  FRIEND." 

TOLL  !     Is  it  night,  or  daylight  yet  ? 
Somewhere  the  birds  seem  singing  still, 
Though  surely  now  the  sun  has  set 

Toll !     But  who  tolls  the  Bell  once  more  ? 
He  must  have  climbed  the  parapet 
Did  I  not  bar  the  belfry  door  ? 

Who  can  it  be  ? — the  Bernardine, 
That  used  to  pray  with  me  of  yore  ? 
No, — for  the  monk  was  not  so  lean. 

This  must  be  He  who,  legend  saith, 
Comes  sometimes  with  a  kindlier  mien 
And  tolls  a  knell. — This  shape  is  Death. 

Good-bye,  old  Bell !    So  let  it  be. 
How  strangely  now  I  draw  my  breath ! 
What  is  this  haze  of  light  I  see  ?  ... 

IN  MANUS  TUAS,  DOMINE  ! 
2  12 


ARS  VICTRIX. 
(IMITATED  FROM  THE"OPHILE  GAUTIER.) 

YES;  when  the  ways  oppose — 
When  the  hard  means  rebel, 

Fairer  the  work  out-grows, — 
More  potent  far  the  spell. 

O  Poet,  then,  forbear 
The  loosely-sandalled  verse, 

Choose  rather  thou  to  wear 
The  buskin — straight  and  terse  ; 

Leave  to  the  tiro's  hand 
The  limp  and  shapeless  style  ; 

Sec  that  thy  form  demand 
The  labour  of  the  file. 


Ars  Victrix. 

Sculptor,  do  thou  discard 
The  yielding  clay, — consign 

To  Paros  marble  hard 
The  beauty  of  thy  line ; — 

Model  thy  Satyr's  face 
In  bronze  of  Syracuse ; 

In  the  veined  agate  trace 
The  profile  of  thy  Muse. 

Painter,  that  still  must  mix 
But  transient  tints  anew, 

Thou  in  the  furnace  fix 
The  firm  enamel's  hue; 

Let  the  smooth  tile  receive 
Thy  dove-drawn  Erycine ; 

Thy  Sirens  blue  at  eve 
Coiled  in  a  wash  of  wine. 

All  passes.    ART  alone 
Enduring  stays  to  us ; 

The  Bust  out-lasts  the  thronc,- 
Tl-.e  Coin,  Tiberius ; 
214 


Ars   Victrix. 

Even  the  gods  must  go ; 

Only  the  lofty  Rhyme 
Not  countless  years  o'erthrow,- 

Not  long  array  of  time. 

Paint,  chisel,  then,  or  write ; 

But,  that  the  work  surpass, 
With  the  hard  fashion  fight, — 

With  the  resisting  mass. 
215 


ESSAYS  IN  OLD  FRENCH  FORMS. 

"  They  are  a  school  to  win 
The  fa-r  French  daughter  to  learn  English  in; 

And,  graced  with  her  song, 
To  make  the  language  sweet  upon  her  tongue.' 

BKNjoNSON,  Underwoods, 


As,  to  the  pipe,  with,  rhythmic  feet 
In  windings  of  some  old-world  dance, 
The  smiling  couples  cross  and  meet, 
Join  hands,  and  then  in  line  advance,  — 
So  to  these  fair  old  tunes  of  France, 
Through  all  their  maze  of  to  and  fro, 
The  light-heeled  numbers  laughing  go, 
Retreat,  return,  and  ere  they  flee, 
One  moment  pause  in  panting  r<no, 
And  seem  to  say  —  Vos  plaudite  1 


ROSE-LEAVES. 

(TRIOLETS.) 

"  Sans peser.— Sans  rester" 

A  KISS. 

ROSE  kissed  me  to-day. 

Will  she  kiss  me  to-morrow? 
Let  it  be  as  it  may, 
Rose  kissed  me  to-day. 
But  the  pleasure  gives  way 

To  a  savour  of  sorrow ; — 
Rose  kissed  me  to-day, — 

Will  she  kiss  me  to-morrow? 

CIRCE. 

IN  the  School  of  Coquettes 
Madam  Rose  is  a  scholar : — 

O,  they  fish  with  all  nets 

In  the  School  of  Coquettes  ! 

When  her  brooch  she  forgets 
'T  is  to  show  her  new  collar ; 

In  the  School  of  Coquettes 
Madam  Rose  is  a  scholar  ! 
221 


Rose-Leaves. 

A   TEAR. 

THERE  's  a  tear  in  her  eye, — 

Such  a  clear  little  jewel ! 
What  can  make  her  cry  ? 
There  's  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
"  Puck  has  killed  a  big  fly,— 

And  it 's  horribly  cruel ;  " 
There  's  a  tear  in  her  eye, — 

Such  a  clear  little  jewel ! 

A   GREEK    GIFT. 

HERE  's  a  present  for  Rose, 
How  pleased  she  is  looking  ! 

Is  it  verse  ? — is  it  prose  ? 

Here  's  a  present  for  Rose  ! 

"P/ats,"  "Entrees,"  and  "£dts,"— 
Why,  it 's  "  Gouffe  on  Cooking  "  ! 

Here 's  a  present  for  Rose, 
How  pleased  she  is  looking  ! 

"  URCEUS  EXIT." 
I  INTENDED  an  Ode, 

And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 
It  began  a  la  mode, 
I  intended  an  Ode  ; 
But  Rose  crossed  the  road 

In  her  latest  new  bonnet ; 
I  intended  an  Ode, 

And  it  turned  to  a  Sonnet. 

222 


"PERSICOS  ODI." 

(TRIOLETS.) 

DAVUS,  I  detest 

Orient  display ; 
Wreaths  on  linden  drest, 
Davus,  I  detest. 
I^et  the  late  rose  rest 

Where  it  fades  away  :— 
Davus,  I  detest 

Orient  display. 

Naught  but  myrtle  twine 
Therefore,  Boy,  for  me 

Sitting  'neath  the  vine, — 

Naught  but  myrtle  twine ; 

Fitting  to  the  wine, 
Not  unfitting  thee  ; 

Naught  but  myrtle  twine 

Therefore,  Boy,  foi  me. 
223 


THE  WANDERER. 
(RONDEL.) 

LOVE  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling, — 
The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  of  yore ! 
We  see  him  stand  by  the  open  door, 

With  his  great  eyes  sad,  and  his  bosom  swelling. 

He  makes  as  though  in  our  arms  repelling, 
He  fain  would  lie  as  he  lay  before ; — 

Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling, — 
The  old,  old  Love  that  we  knew  of  yore ! 

Ah,  who  shall  help  us  from  over-telling 
That  sweet  forgotten,  forbidden  lore ! 
E'en  as  we  doubt  in  our  heart  once  more, 

With  a  rush  of  tears  to  our  eyelids  welling, 

Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling. 
224 


"VITAS  HINNULEO." 

(RONDEL.) 

You  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 

As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother 

Through  trackless  woods.     If  spring-winds  sigh 
It  vainly  strives  its  fears  to  smother; — 

Its  trembling  knees  assail  each  other 
When  lizards  stir  the  bramble  dry ; — 
You  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 

As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother. 

And  yet  no  Libyan  lion  I, — 

No  ravening  thing  to  rend  another; 

Lay  by  your  tears,  your  tremors  by — 
A  Husband  's  better  than  a  brother ; 

Nor  shun  me,  Chloe,  wild  and  shy 
As  some  stray  fawn  that  seeks  its  mother. 
225 


"ON  LONDON  STONES." 

(RONDEAU.) 

ON  London  stones  I  sometimes  sigh 
For  wider  green  and  bluer  sky ; — 
Too  oft  the  trembling  note  is  drowned 
In  this  huge  city's  varied  sound ; — 
u  Pure  song  is  country -born  " — I  cry. 

Then  comes  the  spring, — the  months  go  by, 
The  last  stray  swallows  seaward  fly ; 
And  I — I  too ! — no  more  am  found 
On  London  stones ! 

In  vain ! — the  woods,  the  fields  deny 
That  clearer  strain  I  fain  would  try ; 
Mine  is  an  urban  Muse,  and  bound 
By  some  strange  law  to  paven  ground ; 
Abroad  she  pouts ; — she  is  not  shy 
On  London  stones  I 
226 


"FAREWELL,  RENOWN!" 
(RONDEAU.) 

FAREWELL,  Renown !    Too  fleeting  flower, 

That  grows  a  year  to  last  an  hour ; — 
Prize  of  the  race's  dust  and  heat,    * 
Too  often  trodden  under  feet, —    --f 

Why  should  I  court  your  "barren  dower"? 

U 
Nay ; — had  I  Dryden's  angry  power, — 

The  thews  of  Ben, — the  wind  of  Gower, — 
Not  less  my  voice  should  still  repeat 
"Farewell,  Renown!" 

0^ 

Farewell ! — Because  the  Muses'  bower 
Is  filled  with  rival  brows  that  lower; — 

Because,  howe'er  his  pipe  be  sweet, 

The  Bard,  that  "pays,"  must  please  the  street; — 
But  most .  .  .  because  the  grapes  are  sour, — 

Farewell,  Renown ! 
227 


"MORE  POETS  YET!" 

(RONDEAU.) 

"  MORE  Poets  yet ! " — I  hear  him  say, 
Arming  his  heavy  hand  to  slay ; — 
"  Despite  my  skill  and  'swashing  blow,' 
They  seem  to  sprout  where'er  I  go; — 
I  killed  a  host  but  yesterday  1" 

Slash  on,  O  Hercules !     You  may. 
Your  task  's,  at  best,  a  Hydra-fray ; 
And  though  you  cut,  not  less  will  grow 
More  Poets  yet ! 

Too  arrogant !     For  who  shall  stay 
The  first  blind  motions  of  the  May  ? 
Who  shall  out-blot  the  morning  glow  ?- 
Or  stem  the  full  heart's  overflow  ? 
Who  ?     There  will  rise,  till  Time  decay, 
More  Poets  yet ! 
228 


"WITH  PIPE  AND  FLUTE." 

(RONDEAU.) 

WITH  pipe  and  flute  the  rustic  Pan 
Of  old  made  music  sweet  for  man ; 
And  wonder  hushed  the  warbling  bird, 
And  closer  drew  the  calm-eyed  herd, — 
The  rolling  river  slowlier  ran. 

Ah  !  would, — ah  !  would,  a  little  span, 
Some  air  of  Arcady  could  fan 

This  age  of  ours,  too  seldom  stirred 
With  pipe  and  flute ! 

But  now  for  gold  we  plot  and  plan ; 

And  from  Beersheba  unto  Dan, 
Apollo's  self  might  pass  unheard, 
Or  find  the  night-jar's  note  preferred ; — 

Not  so  it  fared,  when  time  began, 

With  pipe  and  flute ! 
229 


A  RCNDEAU  TO  ETHEL, 

(Who  wishes  she  had  lived- 

"  In  teacup-limes  of  hood  and  hoop, 
Or  while  the  patch  was  worn.") 

u  IN  teacup  times !  "  The  style  of  dress 
Would  suit  your  beauty,  I  confess ; 

BELiNDA-like,  the  patch  you  'd  wear; 

I  picture  you  with  powdered  hair, — 
You  'd  make  a  charming  Shepherdess ! 

And  I — no  doubt — could  well  express 
SIR  PLUME'S  complete  conceitedness, — 
Could  poise  a  clouded  cane  with  care 
"  In  teacup-times !  " 

The  parts  would  fit  precisely — yes : 
We  should  achieve  a  huge  success ! 
You  should  disdain,  and  I  despair, 
With  quite  the  true  Augustan  air; 
But .  .  .  could  I  love  you  more,  or  less, — 
"  In  teacup-times  ?  " 
230 


"O  FONS  BANDUSLE." 
(RONDEAU.) 

O  BABBLING  Spring,  than  glass  more  clear, 
Worthy  of  wreath  and  cup  sincere, 

To-morrow  shall  a  kid  be  thine 

With  swelled  and  sprouting  brows  for  sign.- 
Sure  sign ! — of  loves  and  battles  near. 

Child  of  the  race  that  butt  and  rear  1 
Not  less,  alas !  his  life-blood  dear 
Shall  tinge  thy  cold  wave  crystalline, 
O  babbling  Spring ! 

Thee  Sirius  knows  not.     Thou  dost  cheer 
With  pleasant  cool  the  plough-worn  steer, — 
The  wandering  flock.     This  verse  of  mine 
Shall  rank  thee  one  with  founts  divine ; 
Men  shall  thy  rock  and  tree  revere, 

O  babbling  Spring ! 
231 


"VIXI    PUELLIS." 
(RONDEAU  OF  VILLON.) 

WE  loved  of  yore,  in  warfare  bold, 
Nor  laurelless.     Now  all  must  go ; 
Let  this  left  wall  of  Venus  show 

The  arms,  the  tuneless  lyre  of  old. 

Here  let  them  hang,  the  torches  cold, 
The  portal-bursting  bar,  the  bow, 
We  loved  of  yore. 

But  thou,  who  Cyprus  sweet  dost  hold, 
And  Memphis  free  from  Thracian  snow, 
Goddess  and  queen,  with  vengeful  blow, 

Smite, — smite  but  once  that  pretty  scold 
We  loved  of  yore. 


"WHEN  I  SAW  YOU  LAST,  ROSE." 

(VILLANELLE.) 

WHEN  I  saw  you  last,  Rose, 
You  were  only  so  high ; — 
How  fast  the  time  goes ! 

Like  a  bud  ere  it  blows, 
You  just  peeped  at  the  sky, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose ! 

Now  your  petals  unclose, 
Now  your  May-time  is  nigh  ;— 
How  fast  the  time  goes! 

And  a  life, — how  it  grows  1 
You  were  scarcely  so  shy, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose! 
233 


"  WJien  I  Saw  you  Last,  Rose" 

In  your  bosom  it  shows 
There  's  a  guest  on  the  sly ; 
(How  fast  the  time  goes !) 

Is  it  Cupid  ?     Who  knows ! 
Yet  you  used  not  to  sigh, 
When  I  saw  you  last,  Rose! 
How  fast  the  time  goes  I 
234 


ON  A  NANKIN  PLATE. 

(VILLANELLE.) 

"  Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been  ! 
Was  there  ever  so  dismal  a  fate  ?" — 
Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin. 

"  Such  a  maid  as  was  never  seen  ! 

She  passed,  tho'  I  cried  to  her  '  Wait,' — 

Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been  ! 

"  I  cried,  '  O  my  Flower,  my  Queen, 
Be  mine  ! '  'Twas  precipitate," — 
Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin, — 

"  But  then  ....  she  was  just  sixteen, — 
Long-eyed, — as  a  lily  straight, — 
Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been  ! 

235 


On  a  Nankin  Plate. 

"  As  it  was,  from  her  palankeen, 

She  laughed — '  You're  a  week  too  late  ! 

(Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin.) 

"  That  is  why,  in  a  mist  of  spleen 
I  mourn  on  this  Nankin  Plate. 
Ah  me,  but  it  might  have  been  !  " — 
Quoth  the  little  blue  mandarin. 

236 


FOR  A  COPY  OF  THEOCRITUS. 

(VILLANELLE.) 

O  SINGER  of  the  field  and  fold, 
THEOCRITUS  !     Pan's  pipe  was  thine, — 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

For  thee  the  scent  of  new-turned  mould, 
The  bee-hives,  and  the  murmuring  pine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold ! 

Thou  sang'st  the  simple  feasts  of  old, — 
The  beechen  bowl  made  glad  with  wine  . 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

Thou  bad'st  the  rustic  loves  be  told, — 
Thou  bad'st  the  tuneful  reeds  combine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold  1 
237 


For  a  Copy  of  Theocritus. 

And  round  thee,  ever-laughing,  rolled 
The  blithe  and  blue  Sicilian  brine  .  . 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

Alas  for  us !     Our  songs  are  cold ; 
Our  Northern  suns  too  sadly  shine : — 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold, 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold ! 
238 


«TU  NE  QUAESIERIS.* 

(VILLANELLE.) 

SEEK  not,  O  Maid,  to  know, 
(Alas !  unblest  the  trying !) 
When  thou  and  I  must  go. 

No  lore  of  stars  can  show. 
What  shall  be,  vainly  prying, 
Seek  not,  O  Maid,  to  know. 

Will  Jove  long  years  bestow  ? — 
Or  is  't  with  this  one  dying, 
That  thou  and  I  must  go ; 

Now, — when  the  great  winds  blow. 
And  waves  the  reef  are  plying  ?  . . 
Seek  not,  O  Maid,  to  know. 
239 


"  Tu  ne  Quacsieris" 

Rathei  let  clear  wine  flow, 
On  no  vain  hope  relying ; 
When  thou  and  I  must  go 

Lies  dark ; — then  be  it  so. 
Now, — now,  churl  Time  is  flying; 
Seek  not,  O  Maid,  to  know 
When  thou  and  I  must  go. 
240 


THE    PRODIGALS. 
(BALLADE:  IRREGULAR.) 

"  PRINCES  ! — and  you,  most  valorous, 
Nobles ! — and  Barons  of  all  degrees  ! 

Hearken  awhile  to  the  prayer  of  us, — 
Beggars  that  come  from  the  over-seas  1 
Nothing  we  ask  or  of  gold  or  fees ; 

Harry  us  not  with  the  hounds  we  pray ; 
Lo, — for  the  surcote's  hem  we  seize, — 

Give  us — ah !  give  us — but  Yesterday  1 " 

"  Dames  most  delicate,  amorous ! 

Damosels  blithe  as  the  belted  bees ! 
Hearken  awhile  to  the  prayer  of  us, — 
Beggars  that  come  from  the  over-seas ! 
Nothing  we  ask  of  the  things  that  please ; 
Weary  are  we,  and  worn,  and  gray; 

Lo, — for  we  clutch  and  we  clasp  your  knees,- 

Give  us — ah !  give  us — but  Yesterday !" 
241 


The  Prodigals. 

"  Damosels — Dames,  be  piteous ! " 

(But  the  dames  rode  fast  by  the  roadway  trees. 
"  Hear  us,  O  Knights  magnanimous ! " 

(But  the  knights  pricked  on  in  their  panoplies.] 
Nothing  they  gat  or  of  hope  or  ease, 
But  only  to  beat  on  the  breast  and  say : — 
"  Life  we  drank  to  the  dregs  and  lees ; 
Give  us — ah!  give  us — but  Yesterday  1" 

ENVOY. 

YOUTH,  take  heed  to  the  prayer  of  these ! 
Many  there  be  by  the  dusty  way, — 

Many  that  cry  to  the  rocks  and  seas 
"  Give  us — ah  !  give  us — but  Yesterday ! " 

242 


ON  A  FAN  THAT  BELONGED  TO  THE 
MARQUISE  DE  POMPADOUR. 

(BALLADE.) 

CHICKEN-SKIN,  delicate,  white, 

Painted  by  Carlo  Vanloo, 
Loves  in  a  riot  of  light, 

Roses  and  vaporous  blue ; 

Hark  to  the  dainty  frou-frou/ 
Picture  above,  if  you  can, 

Eyes  that  could  melt  as  the  dew, — 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  ! 

See  how  they  rise   at  the  sight, 

Thronging  the  (EH  de  Boeuf  through, 
Courtiers  as  butterflies  bright, 

Beauties  that  Fragonard  drew, 

Talon-rouge,  falbala,  queue, 
Cardinal,  Duke, — to  a  man, 

Eager  to  sigh  or  to  sue, — 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  1 
243 


TJie  Fan  of  the  Marquise  de  Pompadour. 

Ah,  but  things  more  than  polite 
Hung  on  this  toy,  voyez-vous  / 

Matters  of  state  and  of  might, 
Things  that  great  ministers  do  • 
Things  that,  may  be,  overthrew 

Those  in  whose  brains  they  began ; 
Here  was  the  sign  and  the  cue, — 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan ! 

ENVOY. 

WHERE  are  the  secrets  it  knew  ? 

Weavings  of  plot  and  of  plan  ? 
— But  where  is  the  Pompadour,  too  ? 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  Fan  t 
244 


A  BALLAD  TO  QUEEN  ELIZABETH 
of  the  Spanish  Armada. 

(BALLADE.) 

KING  PHILLIP  had  vaunted  his  claims ; 

He  had  sworn  for  a  year  he  would  sack  us ; 
With  an  army  of  heathenish  names 

He  was  coming  to  fagot  and  stack  us ; 

Like  the  thieves  of  the  sea  he  would  track  us, 
And  shatter  our  ships  on  the  main ; 

But  we  had  bold  Neptune  to  back  us, — 
And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 

His  caracks  were  christened  of  dames 

To  the  kirtles  whereof  he  would  tack  us ; 
With  his  saints  and  his  gilded  stern-frames, 

He  had  thought  like  an  egg-shell  to  crack  us ; 

Now  Howard  may  get  to  his  Flaccus, 
And  Drake  to  his  Devon  again, 

And  Hawkins  bowl  rubbers  to  Bacchus, — 
For  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 
245 


A  Ballad  to  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Let  his  Majesty  hang  to  St.  James 

The  axe  that  he  whetted  to  hack  us ; 
He  must  play  at  some  lustier  games 

Or  at  sea  he  can  hope  to  out-thwack  us ; 

To  his  mines  of  Peru  he  would  pack  us 
To  tug  at  his  bullet  and  chain ; 

Alas !  that  his  Greatness  should  lack  us  I—- 
But where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 

ENVOY. 

GLORIANA  ! — the  Don  may  attack  us 
Whenever  his  stomach  be  fain ; 

He  must  reach  us  before  he  can  rack  us, . . 
And  where  are  the  galleons  of  Spain  ? 
246 


THE  BALLAD  OF  IMITATION. 

(BALLADE.) 

"  C'est  imiter  quelqu'un  que  de planter  des  choux." 

— ALFRED  DE  MUSSEI, 

IF  they  hint,  O  Musician,  the  piece  that  you  played 
Is  nought  but  a  copy  of  Chopin  or  Spohr ; 

That  the  ballad  you  sing  is  but  merely  "conveyed" 
From  the  stock  of  the  Arnes  and  the  Purcells  of  yore, 
That  there  's  nothing,  in  short,  in  the  words  or  the 
score 

That  is  not  as  out-worn  as  the  "Wandering  Jew"; 
Make  answer — Beethoven  could  scarcely  do  more— 

That  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too ! 

If  they  tell  you,  Sir  Artist,  your  light  and  your  shade 

Are  simply  "adapted"  from  other  men's  lore; 
That — plainly  to  speak  of  a  "spade"  as  a  "spade" — 
You  've  "stolen"  your  grouping  from  three  or  frona 
four; 

247 


The  Ballad  of  Imitation. 

That,  however  the  writer  the  truth  may  deplore, 
T  was  Gainsborough  painted  your  "Little  Boy  Blue"; 

Smile  only  serenely — though  cut  to  the  core — 
For  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too ! 

And  you  too,  my  Poet,  be  never  dismayed 

If  they  whisper  your  Epic — "  Sir  Eperon  d'Or  " — 
Is  nothing  but  Tennyson  thinly  arrayed 

In  a  tissue  that 's  taken  from  Morris's  store ; 

That  no  one,  in  fact,  but  a  child  could  ignore 
That  you  "lift"  or  "accommodate"  all  that  you  do; 

Take  heart — though  your  Pegasus'  withers  be  sore— 
For  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too ! 


POSTSCRIPTUM. — And  you,  whom  we  all  so  adore, 
Dear  Critics,  whose  verdicts  are  always  so  new ! — 

One  word  in  your  ear.     There  were  Critics  before  .  .  , 

And  the  man  who  plants  cabbages  imitates,  too ! 

248 


THK  BALLAD  OF  PROSE  AND  EIIYME. 
(BALLADE  A  DOUBLE  REFRAIN). 

When  the  ways  are  heavy  with  mire  and  rut, 
In  November  fogs,  in  December  snows, 

When  the  North  Wind  howls,  and  the  doors  are  shut 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose 
But  whenever  a  scent  from  the  whitethorn  blows, 

And  the  jasmine-stars  at  the  casement  climb, 
And  a  Rosalind-face  at  the  lattice  shows, 

Then  hey  ! — for  the  ripple  of  laughin-g  rhyme ! 

When  the  brain  gets  dry  as  an  empty  nut, 
When  the  reason  stands  on  its  squarest  toes, 

When  the  mind  (like  a  beard)  has  a  "formal  cut," — 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose  j 
But  whenever  the  May-blood  stirs  and  glows, 

And  the  young  year  draws  to  the  "  golden  prime," 
And  Sir  Romeo  sticks  in  his  ear  a  rose, — 

Then  hey!— -for  the  rbple  of  laughing  rhyme! 
249 


The  Ballad  of  Prose  and  Rhyme. 

In  a  theme  where  the  thoughts  have  a  pedant-strut, 

In  a  changing  quarrel  of  "Ayes"  and  "Noes," 
In  a  starched  procession  of  "If"  and  "But," — , 

There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose ; 

But  whenever  a  soft  glance  softer  grows 
And  the  light  hours  dance  to  the  trysting-time, 

And  the  secret  is  told  "  that  no  one  knows," — 
Then  hey ! — for  the  ripple  of  laughing  rhyme ! 

ENVOY. 

IN  the  work-a-day  world, — for  its  needs  and  woes, 
There  is  place  and  enough  for  the  pains  of  prose , 
But  whenever  the  May-bells  clash  and  chime, 

Then  hey !— for  the  npple  of  laughing  rhyme  i 
250 


"  O    NAVIS." 
(BALLADE.) 

SHIP,  to  the  roadstead  rolled, 
What  dost  thou  ? — O,  once  more 

Regain  the  port.     Behold  ! 
Thy  sides  are  bare  of  oar, 
Thy  tall  mast  wounded  sore 

Of  Africus,  and  see, 

What  shall  thy  spars  restore  ! — 

Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  ! 

What  cable  now  will  hold 

When  all  drag  out  from  shore  ! 

What  god  canst  thou,  too  bold, 
In  time  of  need  implore  ! 
25' 


"  O  Navis" 

Look  !  for  thy  sails  flap  o'er, 
Thy  stiff  shrouds  part  and  flee, 

Fast — fast  thy  seams  outpour, — 
Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  ! 

What  though  thy  ribs  of  old 

The  pines  of  Pontus  bore  ! 
Not  now  to  stern  of  gold 

Men  trust,  or  painted  prore  ! 

Thou,  or  thou  count'st  it  store 
A  toy  of  winds  to  be, 

Shun  thou  the  Cyclads'  roar, — 
Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  ! 

ENVOY. 

SHIP  OF  THE  STATE,  before 

A  care,  and  now  to  me 
A  hope  in  my  heart's  core, — 

Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  ! 

252 


THE    DANCE    OF    DEATH. 
(CHANT  ROYAL,  AFTER  HOLBEIN.) 

"  Contra  vim  Mortis 
Non  est  med teamen  in  hortis." 

HE  is  the  despots'  Despot.     All  must  bide, 
Later  or  soon,  the  message  of  his  might ; 
Princes  and  potentates  their  heads  must  hide, 
Touched  by  the  awful  sigil  of  his  right ; 
Beside  the  Kaiser  he  at  eve  doth  wait 
And  pours  a  potion  in  his  cup  of  state ; 
The  stately  Queen  his  bidding  must  obey ,' 
No  keen-eyed  Cardinal  shall  him  affray  j 
And  to  the  Dame  that  wantoneth  he  saith — 
"  Let  be,  Sweet-heart,  to  junket  and  to  play." 
There  is  no  king  more  terrible  than  Death. 

The  lusty  Lord,  rejoicing  in  his  pride,    , 
He  draweth  down ;  before  the  armed  Knight 

253 


The  Dance  of  Death. 

With  jingling  bridle-rein  he  still  doth  ride; 
He  crosseth  the  strong  Captain  in  the  fight; 
He  beckons  the  grave  Elder  from  debate ; 
He  hales  the  Abbot  by  his  shaven  pate, 
Nor  for  the  Abbess'  wailing  will  delay; 
No  bawling  Mendicant  shall  say  him  nay ; 
E'en  to  the  pyx  the  Priest  he  followeth, 
Nor  can  the  Leech  his  chilling  finger  stay  .  . 
There  is  no  king  more  terrible  than  Death. 

All  things  must  bow  to  him.     And  woe  betide 
The  Wine-bibber, — the  Roysterer  by  night; 
Him  the  feast-master,  many  bouts  defied, 
Him  'twixt  the  pledging  and  the  cup  shall  smite; 
Woe  to  the  Lender  at  usurious  rate, 
The  hard  Rich  Man,  the  hireling  Advocate ; 
Woe  to  the  Judge  that  selleth  right  for  pay; 
Woe  to  the  Thief  that  like  a  beast  of  prey 
With  creeping  tread  the  traveller  harryeth  : — 
These,  in  their  sin,  the  sudden  sword  shall  slay  .  . 
There  is  no  king  more  terrible  than  Death. 

He  hath  no  pity, — nor  will  be  denied. 
When  the  low  hearth  is  garnished  and  bright, 
Grimly  he  flingeth  the  dim  portal  wide, 
And  steals  the  Infant  in  the  Mother's  sight; 
254 


The  Dance  of  Death. 

He  hath  no  pity  for  the  scorned  of  fate : — 
He  spares  not  Lazarus  lying  at  the  gate, 
Nay,  nor  the  Blind  that  stumbleth  as  he  may ; 
Nay,  the  tired  Ploughman, — at  the  sinking  ray, 
In  the  last  furrow, — feels  an  icy  breath, 
And  knows  a  hand  hath  turned  the  team  astray 
There  is  no  king  more  terrible  than  Death. 

He  hath  no  pity.     For  the  new-made  Bride, 
Blithe  with  the  promise  of  her   life's  delight, 
That  wanders  gladly  by  her  Husband's  side, 
He  with  the  clatter  of  his  drum  doth  fright ; 
He  scares  the  Virgin  at  the  convent  grate; 
The  Maid  half- won,  the  Lover  passionate ; 
He  hath  no  grace  for  weakness  and  decay : 
The  tender  Wife,  the  Widow  bent  and  gray, 
The  feeble  Sire  whose  footstep  faltereth, — 
All  these  he  leadcth  by  the  lonely  way  .  . 
There  is  no  king  more  terrible  than  Death. 

ENVOY. 

YOUTH,  for  whose  ear  and  monishing  of  late, 
I  sang  of  Prodigals  and  lost  estate, 
Have  thou  thy  joy  of  living  and  be  gay; 
255 


The  Daiice  of  Death. 

But  know  not  less  that  there  must  come  a  day, — 
Aye,  and  perchance  e'en  now  it  hasteneth, — 
When  thine  own  heart  shall  speak  to  thee  and 

say,— 

There  is  no  king  more  terrible  than  Death. 
256 


When  Finis  comes,  the  Book  we  close, 

And  somewhat  sadly,  Fancy  goes, 

With  backward  step,  from  stage  to  stage 
Of  that  accomplished  pilgrimage  .  .  . 

The  thorn  lies  thicker  than  the  rose  ! 

There  is  so  much  that  no  one  knows,  — 
So  much  un-reached  that  none  suppose  ; 

What  flaws  !  what  faults  ! —  on  every  page, 
When  Finis  comes. 

Still,  —  they  must  pass  !     The  swift  Tide  flows. 

Though  not  for  all  the  laurel  grows, 
Perchance,  in  this  be-slandered  age, 
The  worker,  mainly,  wins  his  wage  ;  — 

And  Time  will  sweep  both  friends  and  foes 
When  FINIS  comes  ! 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


"  Ensign  (of  BRAGG'S)  made  a  terrible  clangor."  —  PAGE  23. 

DESPITE  its  suspicious  appropriateness  in  this  case, 
'Bragg's'  regiment  of  Foot-Guards  really  existed;  and  was 
ordered  to  Flanders  in  April,  1742.  (See  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine, 1742,  i.  217.) 


"  PoRTO-BELLO  at  last  was  ta'en."  —  PAGE  25. 

Porto-Bello  was  taken  in  November,  1739.  But  Vice-Admiral 
Vernon's  despatches  did  not  reach  England  until  the  following 
March.  (See  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  1740,  i.  124,  et  seq.) 


"  In  the  fresh  contours  of  his  '  Milkmaid's  '/ace."  —  PAGE  29. 

See  the  Enraged  Musician,  an  engraving  of  which  was  pub- 
lished in  November  of  the  following  year  (1741). 

"An  Incident  in  the  Life  of  Francois  Boiicher"  —  PAGE  38. 

See  Boucher  by  Arsene  Houssaye,  Galerie  du  XVIII'  Siecle 
(Cinquieme  Serie),  and  Charles  Blanc,  Histoire  des  Peintres  de 
tons  les  JScoles. 

261 


Notes. 

"  The  scene,  a  wood."  —  PAGE  38. 

The  picture  referred  to  is  Le  Punier  Mystlrieux  by  F.  Bou- 
cher ;  engraved  by  R.  Gaillard. 

"  And  far  afield  were  sun-baked  savage  creatures."  —  PAGE  39. 
See  Les  Caracteres  de  LA  BRUYERE,  De  Fhomme. 

"  Whose  greatest  grace  was  jupes  a  la  Camargo."  —  PAGE  40. 

"  C'ltait  le  beau  temps  ou  Camargo  trouvait  ses  jupes  trop  longues 
pour  danser  la gargouillade."  —  ARSENE  HOUSSAYE. 

"The  grass  he  called  '  too  green' "  —  PAGE  41. 

"  //  trouvait  la  nature  trop  verte  et  mal  fclairle.  Et  son  ami 
Lancret,  le  peintre  des  salons  a  la  mode,  lui  rfpondait:  '  Je  suis 
de  -votre  sentiment,  la  nature  manque  d'harmonie  et  de  seduction.' " 
—  CHARLES  BLANC. 

"Nay,  — 'twas  a  song  of  SAiNTE-AuLAiRE."  —  PAGE  52. 

It  is  but  just  to  the  octogenarian  Marquis,  whom  the  Duchess 
of  Maine  surnamed  her  " vieux berger"  to  say  that  he  is  guilt- 
less of  the  song  here  ascribed  to  him.  For  it,  and  the  similar 
pieces  in  these  Proverbs,  the  author  is  alone  responsible.  In 
the  Secrets  of  the  Heart,  however,  he  has,  without  attempting 
to  revive  the  persons,  borrowed  the  names  of  the  charming 
heroines  of  A  qitoi  rSvent  les  Jeunes  Filles. 

"  Some  moneyed  mourner's  '  love  or  pride.' "  —  PACE  165. 

"  Thus  much  alone  we  know  —  Metella  died, 
The  wealthiest  Roman's  wife :  Behold  his  love  or  pride  ! " 

Childe  Harold,  iv.  103. 

"A  bolder  rider  than  Bellerofhon."  —  PAGE  191. 

"  Equcs  ipso  melior  Bellerophonte."  —  HOR  iii.  12. 

262 


Notes. 

"The  Thefts  of  Mercury."  —  PAGE  192. 

"  Te,  boves  olim  nisi  reddidisses 
Per  dolum  amotas,  puerum  minaci 
Voce  dum  terret,  viduus  pharetra 

Risit  Apollo."  —  HOR.  i.  10. 

"  Not  countless  years  overthrow."  —  PAGE  215. 

"  —  innumerabilis 
Annorum  series  et  f uga  temporum."  —  HOR.  iii.  30. 

"PERSICOS  ODI."  —  PAGE  223. 

The  following  "  Pocket  Version  "  was  appended  to  this,  when 
it  first  appeared  in  the  second  edition  of  Proverbs  in  Porcelain, 
1878:  — 

"  Davus  I  detest 

Persian  decoration ; 
Roses  and  the  rest, 
Davus,  I  detest. 
Simple  myrtle  best 

Suits  our  modest  station ;  — 
Davus,  I  detest 

Persian  decoration." 

"  ON  LONDON  STONES."  —  PAGE  226. 

Lope  de  Vega  and  Hurtado  de  Mendoza  wrote  sonnets  on 
Sonnet-making ;  Voiture  imitated  them  as  regards  the  Rondeau. 
Here  is  a  paraphrase  of  Voiture  :  — 

You  bid  me  try,  BLUE-EYES,  to  write 
A  Rondeau.     What !  —  forthwith  ?  —  To-night  ? 
Reflect.     Some  skill  I  have,  't  is  true ;  — 
But  thirteen  lines  !  —  and  rhymed  on  two  ! 
"  Refrain,"  as  well.    Ah,  hapless  plight  1 
263 


Notes. 

Still,  there  are  five  lines,  —  ranged  aright. 
These  Gallic  bonds,  I  feared,  would  fright 
My  easy  Muse.    They  did,  till  you  — 
You  hid  me  try ! 

That  makes  them  eight.    The  port 's  in  sight;  - 
'T  is  all  because  your  eyes  are  bright ! 
Now  just  a  pair  to  end  in  "  oo,"  — 
When  maids  command,  what  can't  we  do  I 
Behold  !  —  the  RONDEAU,  tasteful,  light, 
You  bid  me  try  I 
264 


